


Tom, just Tom

by Ciule



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Dark Magic, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Library Sex, Lies, Manipulation, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, POV Voldemort (Harry Potter), Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Sociopath Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Vaginal Sex, Voldemort is promiscuous, Voyeurism, until a point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 118,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24706069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ciule/pseuds/Ciule
Summary: Lord Voldemort slithered out of the Veil on New Year's Eve in the year 2000. Still bent on world domination, he decided that Golden Girl Granger would be the perfect accessory on his arm.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Voldemort
Comments: 464
Kudos: 731





	1. Slithering Into the World

**Author's Note:**

> I warn you: Tom/ Voldemort is a sociopath. There will be loads of manipulation, lies and a generally careless attitude towards other people, plus explicit scenes of sex and violence – and a strong element of possessiveness. However, even though he thinks of himself as Voldemort, he's not snake-face.
> 
> This story is complete on FFnet. Bringing it over here, there'll be a few new scenes and general improvement. (*stagewhispers:* read it here, not over there!) 
> 
> The inspiration for this story was this picture: 
> 
> He's a true badguy, and he was hanged in 1865 - and he looks just like the Tom in my mind. 
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy the story! I did when writing it - I was chuckling all the time.

It was just before midnight, on the 31 December 2000, when Voldemort slithered naked as the day he was born out of the Veil in the Department of Mysteries. He took a deep, gasping breath, and looked down at his twenty-nine year old body. His mouth tugged into a smile, as he double-checked himself with his hands. Hair – _check_ , nose – _check_ , functional cock – _check_ , pale, but still normal skin – _check_. Conjuring a mirror quickly, he saw with satisfaction that his eyes were his normal, dark colour, and there was no sign of the snake-like being he had evolved into. _His ritual had worked. It was a fitting rebirth._

The Department of Mysteries were cold and dark, and he supposed even the most zealous Unspeakable would be somewhere else, celebrating the New Year. _And what a year it would be._ He smiled to himself, as he strode through the halls, Disillusioned, making no sound. 

The torches were flickering slightly by his passage, and the musty smell of the deep underground tickled his nose. He had never been inside the Department before, but he had seen maps, though it would stand to reason they might have changed things over the last forty years. He certainly would have done that, but the Ministry was prone to be unimaginative, boring and mindlessly bureaucratic. There was no reason to believe **that** had changed, but he would have to check all facts: Knowledge was _everything_. Looking curiously around him, he finally saw a wizard standing guard at the end of the corridor. _Thank Merlin, he was getting cold, it would be good to get hold of some clothes._

Casually, he flicked his hand silently at the half-asleep wizard. A green jet-stream of light left his finger, and the man plunged face-forward on the floor, never noticing what hit him.

Voldemort stopped, Divesting the man from his robes. Wrinkling his nose, he Scourgified the shirt, robes and trousers before putting it on, and he pocketed money and some other knick-knacks, leaving the man in his underthings. _Merlin, other people's sweat… It was disgusting. He longed to have new robes fitted. After his years at the Orphanage, he was thoroughly sick of hand-me-downs. He wanted his own things, something that only belonged to him. Like the world, for an instance._

Hefting the man's wand in his hand, he waved it experimentally. The eleven inch rowan, dragon heartstrings if he had to guess, was a poor fit, much too weak for him, but it would do until he had the time to visit Ollivander's shop. Besides, rowan wands had never suited his needs, the wood famously being averse to dark spells. For that matter, he hardly needed a wand anyway.

Cocking his head at the dead wizard, he shrank him, before Transfiguring him whimsically into a small model of a Quaffle. He left the Ministry with the ball bouncing in his palm, and as soon as he had entered the street, he threw it down the street, watching it roll underneath a London bus, being squashed into tiny pieces.

Walking along the Muggle street, he couldn't help staring at the partygoers wandering the street. _What the fuck had happened to female Muggle clothing? The women barely wore clothes, though many of the men wore proper suits and jackets._ He swallowed, feeling his cock twitch as a luscious dark-haired beauty, her tits pressed up and almost out of her skin-tight, short black dress, gave him a languid wink as she passed by. Idly, he wondered if witches dressed like this, too, and he smiled in anticipation. _What a year, indeed._

Turning into an alley, he whispered " _Volo"_ and took to the air. The lights from Muggle London were vast, twinkling in the dark night, and shouts of revellers drifted up to him as he flew leisurely, Disillusioned towards Diagon Alley. He landed softly nearby, ready to set up a base, somewhere.

Outside a large, Muggle apartment building, he saw a young, scantily dressed young woman on wobbly feet, rifling through her purse, obviously looking for her keys. Quickly Transfiguring his robes into something more Muggle-like, he walked up to her, dazzling her with a seductive smile.

"All alone?" he said, looking down into her eyes, burrowing his way into her mind, suggesting that this stranger was ok, in fact, someone she wanted very much.

She nodded, breathlessly, and he touched the skin beneath her earlobe, trailing his fingers down the silky skin.

"Allow me," he murmured, pleased by the way goose bumps formed along her arms. He opened the door by a silent “ _Alohomora”._ The Muggle elevator took them all the way up to her fifth floor flat, and he entered the dark, silent apartment, the girl trailing behind him on eager feet.

The apartment was large, with tall windows giving a nice view over the street. He wrapped his arms around her, and they staggered to her bed.

Xxxx

A few hours later, he rose. The first, pale, rosy light of dawn was just visible through the large windows, and the girl was now laying still, eyes open but unseeing, the messy bed reeking of sex. Stretching, he sauntered out in her living room, scratching his stomach. _Gods, this felt wonderful. No wonder his former self had gone mad without sex._ He chuckled slightly, opening the cupboards to find some food.

The living room furniture had changed significantly in style from what he was used to, but there was a comfortable sofa in a creamy fabric, next to the open kitchen area. Wandering around, he nodded to himself. _This would be a nice place to set up his base for a few days._ Perusing the book shelves, he pulled out several books on contemporary history, politics and arts. _It would be a long haul, catching up on what had happened in the world from 1955 and until today, on all things Muggle and Wizarding._ In a few days, the girl would wake up from her Stunning, remembering nothing except the world's worst hangover, perhaps wondering how she had eaten all her food while being unconscious. It was not prudent to leave a trail of bodies behind him. He had to be inconspicuous in the beginning.

Xxxx

After a couple of days spent in reading, and researching that odd thing called _telly_ , he felt ready to enter Diagon Alley. Things had indeed changed significantly, not just women's clothing, but also their station in the world. _Well, that would be easy to incorporate into his planning. Besides, he had always believed in talent more than anything, and witches were notoriously easy to charm._

Before entering the wizarding world, he had glamoured his looks into a rather non-descript wizard, easy to forget, being unsure of what people knew of his real looks. He wasn't about to start an outcry the first week. Careful preparation was _everything_.

The Leaky Cauldron looked much the same as before, and he sat down at the counter, ordering a Firewhisky. The bar reeked of spilt beer and wood smoke from the fireplace, 

"Here you go," the barman said gruffly, handing him the smoking glass. "You aren't from around here, are you?"

"No," he shrugged, faking a German accent. "I'm just visiting. Research, you know." He quickly slipped into the barman's head, amused by the fact that his name seemed to be _Tom,_ and quickly brought himself up to speed by rifling gently through his memories, leaving a suggestion that the dark-haired, German wizard had already paid for his drink.

The barman really didn't have what he was looking for, though, so he struck up a conversation with the wizard beside him. It was a lanky blond with a ferret-like face, looking to be down in his cups, and _damn_ , did he have exactly what Voldemort was looking for!

The young man was a Malfoy, of all things, and he felt his lips curl in disgust. _What had happened to the Malfoys, when the heir was sloshed during daytime in a scruffy pub?_

 _But oh, what a trove of information the boy was._ He had traces of Occlumency walls, but they were battered down and worn after too much drinking. Voldemort kept up a rather un-engaging conversation on Quidditch – _after all, that had been most prominent in the barman's mind_ – to distract Malfoy from noticing his thorough mind scan. _A traitor Malfoy, no less, but he had been at the heart of the war._ Voldemort felt himself almost blanch at his own idiocy featured in Malfoy's memories: Clearly, when he did the spell back in 1955, his leftover self had become not only quite mad, but _stupid_ even.

After a few drinks, he nodded to Malfoy, ridding him of his wallet expertly – _his pickpocketing abilities had always been rather excellent_ – and walked out in Diagon Alley, hefting a rather weighty sum of Galleons in his hand. _At least, the Malfoys had retained their money, if not their self-respect._

Flourish and Blotts was his first stop, and he bought several books on the war, as well as some new, interesting tomes on magical theory. _Who knew, maybe someone had discovered any new, exciting theories?_ The book shop was disappointingly free from dark magic texts, though, but it had been much the same in the fifties.

Sitting down in a café, drinking a double espresso with relish while nibbling on some biscuits, he proceeded to read the books on the war to establish a hold on what was considered the current opinions on what had happened. Voldemort had always prided himself in his ability to scan pages, reading easily more than five times faster than the average wizard, and he was well into his second book and third espresso when a young witch interrupted him.

"Mind if I sit at your table?" the dark-haired, pretty witch said, smiling at him. He gave her a practised, charming smile in return, nodding to the empty chair.

She sat down, folding out her magazine, the _Witch Weekly,_ he noted, before giving him another, tentative smile, clearly showing her interest. Looking up at her, he struck up a conversation. After a while, he almost couldn't believe his luck, when she proved to be the receptionist at the _Daily Prophet_.

"I'm a scholar visiting from Germany," he explained, "and I would love to take a look at the _Prophet's_ archives for the last ten years. Would you be able to help me, please?"

She nodded eagerly, eyes shining, and he almost wondered if he had done something wrong with his glamours. Surely, he shouldn't be that attractive, he had aimed for a perfectly normal visage. Grinning, he thought: _Maybe it's my personality shining through. And how that little witch would be running, screaming for her life if she knew the truth._ But she was perfect for his needs, really, and within hours, he was firmly ensconced in the witch's Diagon Alley apartment and deep inside the witch herself.

Xxxx

The witch was sleeping again, exhausted from another round in the sack, snoring softly as she lay on her back, her generous tits falling to each side, displaying the small bruises he had left, and between her parted legs, a large, wet spot had saturated into the bed sheets.

She had proved to be quite inventive and with a fairly good stamina, and he felt well and thoroughly satisfied. Before they had gone home to her apartment, they had visited the newspaper, and he had procured copies of the _Daily Prophet_ archive _,_ shrunken into a small box. Now, he stretched out on her red, velvety sofa, luxuriating the feel of soft fabric against his naked skin, leafing through the papers to get an overview of the last ten years, committing interesting facts to his memory and reading a few of the articles for a more in-depth understanding. _Things had certainly changed,_ he thought, _and he became more and more amazed by his own intransigent stupidity. How had he ended up as such an idiot? Had he taken all his brain cells with him when he split himself? It was even worse than he had been told beforehand._

He stopped, taking a close look at the so-called Golden Trio, the source of his other self's downfall. Here they were, celebrating his fall on a Victory ball. Those boys, there was nothing remarkable about their looks, nothing to say that these two had vanquished a powerful, dark wizard. They seemed fairly normal, like slightly handsome young men, except for the confused look in their eyes. They could be _anyone._

 _But the girl…_ She was wearing a tight, black gown, a mass of golden-brown curls pinned up on her head, but _those eyes…_ Bright and inquisitive, intelligence simply radiated from her brown eyes. Her body was luscious, her gown showing off her curves to an advantage. The moving picture clearly showed off her impatience, and from her expression, she'd rather be anywhere else than in a photo shoot. As picture-Granger chewed down on her bottom lip in irritation, her lips painted a deep red with lipstick, he felt his cock twitch, and he took another long look at her cleavage. Smiling, he thought: _Yes, he'd like to get to know this Granger girl better._

Leafing through the paper, he saw another story on just how many of his own Death Eaters the snake-faced version of him had killed by his own wand after the resurrection. _A staggering_ **_thirty-seven_ ** _– madness!_ Snorting softly at the unmitigated disaster his other self had become, he put his arms behind his head, thinking about what he had done.

_He had taken frequent jaunts from his job at Borgin and Burkes, travelling the world to learn more, improve himself, encountering other dark wizards, witches and beings. After a few years, he had met a Seeress in Syria, and over numerous goblets of Absinthe she had told him his future. He had been shocked and furious to learn that he would be off his rockers, lose his looks, not to mention losing his existence to a mere baby, re-emerging as a snake-like thing, and later lose his life to the same boy._

_The Seeress had laughed in her deep, throaty voice, the bangles bound in her hair gently chiming, and told him that his story wouldn't end by that event. Intrigued, he had attempted to enter her mind, but she had blocked his attempts, telling him that he would have to find the right ritual himself, and preferably, take himself to a time after his own demise._

_He had spent two years going through obscure, magical libraries, visiting scholars, hermits and magical societies, before he had found the solution. In 1955, he had split himself, body and soul, in a terrible ritual, involving multiple sacrifices of innocent blood, wizards and Muggles alike, sending himself into the future, while a more inferior, unhinged and more than half destroyed version of himself remained in his own time, weak, unstable and with partly ruined looks, though nothing as bad as his later snake-faced visage. After that, he had woken up on the fringes of the Veil, crawling out, feeling the cold, dry fabric of time trailing over his body as he emerged into the future world._

Now, he was here, and finally ready for a proper takeover of the Wizarding world – and the Granger girl as well. _It was good to be here._


	2. Spin Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The old wandmaker sighed. "This will be my last, won't it?"
> 
> "Yes. You better make it a good one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, commenting and sending kudos! 
> 
> For some reason, I have a headcanon: Voldemort is a coffee addict. Being British, he should have preferred tea, but apparently not in my head. ;-)

The little witch from the _Prophet,_ Amalia Prewett, was all too happy to have her new, supposedly German, lover to stay for a while. He acted both courteous and generous, taking her out at restaurants, and lavishing his sexual attention on her.

"Sweet Morgana, this was delicious," she almost swooned, eyelashes fluttering, as they slurped oysters and drank champagne. The seafood restaurant in Diagon Alley, _The Black Seamonster_ , was the epitome of fine dining, with white tablecloths, shimmering magical candles, attentive waiters and heavy, silver cutlery. 

Somehow, Voldemort found himself craving _more_ sensuous pleasures than before, like his body knew it had been missing out on years of fun, and he licked the last, salty drop of liquid from the oyster shell with a swipe of his tongue, keeping his gaze on the witch seated across him, making her blush fiercely.

"Do you always eat so well in Germany?" she asked playfully, returning his innuendo by showing him the pink tip of her skillful tongue. He smiled lasciviously at her, knowing full well that the girl was wondering if he really was that well off, and maybe she even hoped for a future in luxury. _He wasn't, though, but it was so easy to make people believe he had paid, even that he had tipped generously. Mind Magic had always been his speciality._

"I do enjoy a good meal," he said, letting his hungry eyes crawl over her cleavage, and the girl literally squirmed in her seat, smoky eyes promising him hot and messy sex later on.

He had the girl accompany him to Madam Malkin's for a fitting too, letting her point out what was fashionable in wizarding wear at the moment. His only requirement was for the fabrics, it had to be soft, expensive and smooth against his skin. The only wool he would accept was for his cloak.

While the witch worked at the reception, he spent his time on her sofa reading through ten years worth of the _Daily Prophet_ , sometimes going out to stroll in the streets, drinking copious amounts of coffee, and scanning the minds of the people he passed for interesting tidbits. He quickly decided that the coffee shop where he had met the girl on the first day served the best brew in Diagon Alley, and within days, he was a regular. _Though, the place looked awful, like it pretended to be modern in a garishly Muggle style. Idly, he wondered if he should make an effort to change that at a later date. During his travels abroad in the forties and the fifties, he had learned to love coffee, developing quite the addiction. Silently, he thanked Merlin for the fact that the British had learned to brew proper coffee sometime between 1955 and 2000._

“Three, and wait until I’ve finished one before serving the next,” he instructed the barista. 

The man was a huge, hulking blonde, looking more like a Viking than a wizard serving coffee for a living. He nodded, before asking respectfully: “Sir, if I may ask, yesterday, did you prefer the fruity blend from Rwanda or the dark French roast?” 

Despite himself, Voldemort lit up. Giving the barista an approving glance, he replied: “The French roast. I noticed you served different blends, and you know what, I want to try them _all_.” 

Xxxx

After a week of intelligence gathering, he sat down at a seedy bar in Knockturn Alley to form a plan, nursing a pint of red Avebury ale, licking the foam from his upper lip with relish. His original plan for taking the world had obviously backfired spectacularly for his former self, but it didn't matter. He could change his plans to achieve more. _Because, what else was the Dark Arts, but ever-changing, unfixed and mutable? His very existence, after all, was a work of the Dark Arts._

Voldemort was fairly certain that the dratted prophecy had been taken care of by his former self's death, but there was no way he'd risk that by going after the Potter fellow with the aim to kill. Still, he would have to take care of Potter, if not for any other reason than avenging his mad, foolish self, but it was imperative that _someone else_ do it.

The so-called Golden Trio would be important to his planning, and luckily: Where there was a witch, there was a way in for Voldemort. At least, it had always been so in the past, and he could see no reason for that to have changed. Besides, everything he learned about Granger cemented his first impression: she was pretty and intelligent, so he supposed it would be fun. _There was nothing he enjoyed more than manipulating smart people. They never expected someone to be smarter than themselves._

Rationally, he knew that applied to himself, too, but so far, no one had proved to be smarter than **him** . He also needed a way to be quickly recognized by the Ministry, as he was no more inclined to start a career as a lowly clerk now than he had been when he was eighteen. _It was lovely, then, that he had such a failsafe way to get everyone's attention._

Xxxx

The little receptionist cried big, fat tears when her German lover had to leave for his so-called ‘international Port-key’. After the tearful goodbye, he sauntered into the Leaky Cauldron, entered the bathrooms, shed his Glamour and emerged as himself. The hush that followed when he re-entered the bar was very satisfying, and a small smile played on his lips as he could feel the eyes of every witch in the room follow him.

"I would like a room for a few weeks," he said confidently at the barman, putting down his suitcases as if he had just arrived in Diagon Alley.

"On what name?" the bartender said, looking speculatively at him.

He smiled, eyes glinting merrily in his excitement, and said: "Tom. Just Tom."

Xxxx

His request to meet with the Minister of Magic, one Kingsley Shacklebolt, was processed extremely quickly when he presented himself at the Ministry. In minutes, he was on his way to the Minister's office, with an Auror guard of four people to boot. Smiling to himself, he walked calmly between them, knowing that he could take them out in the blink of an eye if he wanted too.

The Minister seemed calm, except for the frequent twitching in his left eye, and he extended his hand, saying in a deep voice: "Welcome, Mr. Riddle. I must say this is a surprise. We had no idea of your existence."

"I can imagine," Voldemort said drily, "I haven't exactly been flaunting it either, as you will learn. I realize I have to tell you a bit of my life story."

He looked around in the office with interest, noticing details like the large, ornate mahogany desk, the plush, green chairs, the plaster ornaments in the ceiling, and the tall bookshelves around the office. The row of portraits was all awake, brimming with excitement, but Dumbledore, that old coot, was _glaring_ at him from his frame. He waved at the portraits, giving them his best smile. All in all, this would be a suitable office for him in a year - or less. _Dumbledore's portrait would have to go, though._

"Please, sit down," the Minister said, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of his desk, still hiding his nervousness admirably, excepting the faint sheen of perspiration on his brow.

"Thanks," he replied, and sat down. _Ah, this was comfortable._ "A very nice office," he complimented the Minister, trying to reassure the man of his good intentions.

"Tea?" the Minister asked, fiddling with a golden chain around his neck, his eyes flitting from Voldemort, to his Aurors, to the desk and back again.

"Yes, please. Black, if you don't mind," he said amiably.

In moments, a tea service was in front of them, and the secretary bowed herself out, eyes big and gawking at the extraordinary guest.

"If you would tell me how this, or rather how _you_ came about, all in your own time," the Minister said, his voice now shaking slightly, the fear finally shining through.

The Auror guards still stood tall and menacing by the door, but Voldemort felt fully at ease. _He could handle this, just like he had planned._

Xxxx

The story in the _Daily Prophet_ ended up just like he wanted it: Him, side by side with a beaming Minister, an expression of mingled hope and remorse plastered on his face. 

The headline read: VOLDEMORT'S LOST SON ARRIVES IN ENGLAND. 

Sipping his espresso calmly in his now regular café, with the silly name ‘The Grounded Bean,’ he relished the fact that everyone inside was gawking at him. Actually, people on the streets too, as he was sitting in his favourite spot by the window.

The reporter, one obnoxious blonde witch by the name Skeeter, had written the interview, and somehow, her idea of using a Quick Quotes Quill had evaporated from her mind. Essentially, he had written the story himself, placing all the questions but the last one in her mind, though Skeeter had no idea. The story read:

 _The lost son of the late Lord Voldemort_ , _named Tom Marvolo Voldemort Riddle after his father, has arrived in England. Born out of wedlock to a Rumanian witch in 1971, he tells the story of his hair-raising origin:_

_– My Muggle-born mother was first seduced, then Imperio’ed and raped by my father, the young, incredibly handsome wizard says, eyes dark and filled with a lifetime of pain. – He abducted her from her village, and kept her imprisoned for almost a year. She escaped a few months before I was born, going into hiding. We've spent my childhood running from country to country, hunted and afraid, never staying more than a few months in each place._

_Minister Shacklebolt pats the young wizard on his back, a compassionate expression on his face, and to this reporter, it is clear that a unique bond of friendship has developed between the two wizards._

_– However, our intriguing newcomer says, my mother named me after my father, because she wanted to remind both herself and me of the terrible danger we were in. She would never allow us to forget. We never used our real names while travelling, often glamouring ourselves, until last year, when my mother died of cancer in India. The news of his final demise had reached us by the time she was getting too ill to travel, and we settled down in a remote place to finally give her some rest after a lifetime as a refugee. It was … good, to finally stay in one place in peace and safety._

_– People familiar with You-Know-Who's history, will note a rather striking similarity between father and son, I say._

_– Yes, he says, wincing a little, like this is a fact he's uncomfortable with. – My mother always told me we looked much the same. I just hope people won't hold this against me._

_– Why didn't your mother and you come forward in 1981? I ask, my quill stopping as I gaze at the dark-haired, spitting image of the young Lord Voldemort. To the readers out there, I almost can't express how handsome he is._

_– My mother didn't believe him gone, he shrugs, and I guess history proved her right._

_I nod, as does Shacklebolt. The Minister tells me in confidence that they have run tests on this young man, proving his family claim, and that all other tests show that this young wizard might just be as powerful in magic as Lord Voldemort himself._

_– The scores just skyrocketed, says Shacklebolt, an admiring look on his face. – The examiners have never seen anything like it, and we're looking for a suitable post for him at the Ministry as we speak. He'll be an asset to any department, that's for sure._

_The young man in question looks almost embarrassed by the praise, and he says: – First and foremost, I came to England to thank the people responsible for ridding the world of my father, and I also wanted to see for myself what kind of society the British Wizarding world is building, now that the threat he posed is gone. I want to see a free, wizarding world, not one in the throes of enslavement or thraldom._

_– How did you learn magic, I ask, wondering how a young refugee could be so strong as Shacklebolt implies._

_– My mother was a Muggle born witch, he says calmly, and she was mostly self-taught, with the help of the village wisdom. However, she was smart, and we always managed to get our hands on lots of books, practising spells together. His face darkens, as he adds quietly: – And, the fact is she did learn a lot from my father in those months they spent together._

_– What kind of wand do you have? I ask. I know, I know, dear readers, it's a bit cliché, but we all want to know such things, don't we?_

_He smiles, a little mischievously, and says: – I usually do without, as my mother and I mostly practised wandless magic. I'm certainly going to get one now, as I think it will be an interesting experience to have a wand that matches me._

_Shacklebolt nods again, whispering to me: – What he can do wandless is absolutely unbelievable. I think we should re-evaluate how we teach kids magic – though, never mind, that wasn't the point of the interview, he chuckles ruefully._

_– Do you want to meet Harry Potter? I ask. As he pauses, I wait with baited breath. Will he meet the killer of his father, or is that too hard to contemplate for this young man?_

_– Definitely, he says with a big smile. – I want to meet the Saviour of the Wizarding world, and I hope he'll find time to see me. I can't tell you how much my father's death means to me, as it has opened up a whole new way of life. Harry Potter and his friends are my saviours too, and I hope to be able to thank them in person._

_As we part, Shacklebolt says to me: – This is what Voldemort could have been, had he not squandered his abilities away on dark magic. I think he'll do great things, if he chooses to stay in Britain._

_I have one, last question for the dazzling Mr. Riddle, though, and as the six foot five tall wizard is about to leave, I blurt out: Are you single?_

_He stops in the doorway, turns around and gives me a blindingly, white smile: – Absolutely, Miss Skeeter. I'm very much single._

_My breath catches as he turns to leave, the Minister following him with a beefy hand clasped on his shoulder, and as the two men walk away, all I can think is that: The one who catches him will be one hell of a lucky witch._

He had to grin, this was perfect. If Potter and his friends didn't take the bait, he'd swear to start a new life, living as a Muggle. The paternity test the Ministry had put him through had been a challenge, but he had been able to Confound the testers, if not the test itself. After all, the test result would clearly have told anyone who he really was. Now, all he had to do was to wait for the Golden Trio to respond, plus go and get that wand from Ollivander.

Xxxx

It was long dark when he entered the wandmaker's shop, silent and Disillusioned. He felt certain that he wouldn't be able to fool the old wizard, and he wanted as few witnesses as possible for Ollivander's last sale.

The door creaked, the ‘Closed’ sign banging into the door as he entered, and a querulous "Who's there?" emerged from the back of the shop. The shop itself was dark, but light spilled out from the office. Shuffling steps came towards him, and he said with a smile: "Hello, Mr. Ollivander. I'm here for my new wand."

The old wandmaker stopped, gasping, and whispered: "You!"

"Me, correctly," he answered, enjoying the fear in Ollivander's voice.

"I saw you in that newspaper, I should have known something was wrong… What do you want?"

"A new wand," he said calmly. "Preferably one without any twin cores and such nonsense."

The old wandmaker sighed. "This will be my last, won't it?"

"Yes. You better make it a good one."

"Will you let my family go free?"

"I will, if you find me the perfect wand. I'm a tricky customer." He said, feeling strangely elated. _It was good to be recognized as himself. This level of fear was intoxicating._

"I will try. I've had a long life. I suppose it doesn't matter anymore."

Ollivander sighed, shuffling over to the shelves, beginning his search. 

The old wandmaker pulled out some boxes at the bottom of a shelf, then some more from the top of another, but none were to his liking, none had that spark. He was getting impatient, but the wandmaker seemed to become happier and happier. Suddenly, he stopped, and smacked his forehead: "I should have known – this should be perfect. Just a moment, my Lord!"

He shuffled to the back, and came back, beaming with a narrow, long box in hand. "Try this, my Lord! Silver Lime, twelve inches, with phoenix core. I guarantee this doesn't have a brother."

He took the proffered wand, swished it, and a starry darkness fell in the shop, all sound becoming hushed and muted. Ollivander sank to his knees, and asked: "Will you do it now, my Lord?"

"Clean up the mess, go to sit at your desk, and register the sale of the wand at four pm this afternoon," he said, staring at the wand, preoccupied. "I'll be right with you."

The old wandmaker bowed his head, getting to his feet slowly, painfully, and waved his wand to return the wand boxes to their shelves, making the shop as tidy as it could be, before he shuffled into his office to await his doom.

Voldemort stared at the beautiful wand in his hand, silvery white, flexible, and thrumming with power and companionship. _This was perfect, even better than his old one. With this, he could do_ **_anything._ **

"I'm ready," the old man's voice came from the back. He stepped into the pool of light from the office, seeing the old man sitting behind his desk, his ledger open, and the wand sale registered in the afternoon.

"You served me well, this was a good match," he said, raising the wand to point at Ollivander.

"Thank you, my Lord," the wandmaker said, closing his eyes. He didn't even flinch when the incantation fell from Voldemort's lips: " _Avada Kedavra."_ It was a fitting spell for the initiation of his new wand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, Ollivander... I liked him. :-(


	3. The Golden Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His mask and coolness failing, he hissed out, glaring at Malfoy: "What the hell?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Granger arrives. ;-)

Voldemort had espresso and buttery croissants for breakfast, and read the headline with amusement: “OLLIVANDER DIES OF HEART ATTACK." The croissants melted in his mouth, the rich taste of butter rolling on his tongue, and the espresso was pitch black, strong and scalding hot, tasting like chocolate and red berries blending into a perfect, harmonious taste. 

Someone cleared his voice next to him, and he saw _another_ Malfoy, an older one this time, standing beside him. The man had long, silvery hair, and was leaning on a silver cane. _What a fop,_ he thought, _this must be Lucius Malfoy._ He merely arched his eyebrows at the man. "May I help you?"

The man seemed to be almost shaking in fright, but said guardedly: "Excuse me, Mr. Riddle, but I do believe I might have some information that would be of interest to you."

"Sit," he pointed at the chair opposite of him, and the man scrambled to sit, fidgeting nervously with his pretentious cane. _Voldemort was fully aware of the Malfoy family's involvement with his cause and their treachery, but he hadn't quite grasped how terrified they all were of him. This … had possibilities._

He sipped his coffee, waiting expectantly for Malfoy to speak. When the man seemed to have lost his power of speech, he almost rolled his eyes. "I believe you had something to tell me, Mr…?" he asked, opting for mild curiosity in his voice.

"Ah, well, yes. I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Lucius Malfoy, and I … I was a follower of your late father."

 _Now that was unexpected. He hadn't believed a fellow Slytherin to be so blunt._ Arching an eyebrow, he said coolly, staying in his role: "Then I don't think I'd wish to hear it, Mr. Malfoy. I have no wish to involve myself with my father's minions."

Malfoy reddened, and he looked down at the table. He took a deep breath, and said quietly: "This isn't widely known, but you have a sister. She's three years old."

His mask and coolness failing, he hissed out, glaring at Malfoy: "What the hell?!"

The man almost fell out of his chair, scooting backwards, whispering frantically: "I don't mean any harm, please, my Lord!"

That brought him up short. Swallowing heavily in an effort to control his temper, Voldemort chugged down the rest of his espresso, snapping his fingers rudely at the blonde barista for another one. Smoothing his face, he kept a tight lid on his anger as he replied: "You took me by surprise, I'm sorry if I startled you. But please, Mr. Malfoy, _please refrain_ from addressing me as Lord. That feels … _very_ … uncomfortable for me."

"I'm, I'm, I'm s-s-so s-s-sorry," Malfoy stammered, moving his chair forward again, breathing hard. "You just reminded me so much of your father. You seem to have much of his mannerisms and way of speaking. The same … c-c-co-commanding presence. Please forgive an old Death Eater who's had the fear of his Lord Crucio'ed into him."

He sighed, looking down at the table, hiding his obvious satisfaction. _Merlin, he had always been a sucker for compliments, it was a weakness. He should purge himself of that trait._ Boring his eyes into Malfoy's, he stated: "You must know that I don't see that as a compliment. So, a sister? When, and how?"

"The late Lord Voldemort and my sister in law had the child in November 1997. She's been hidden by my family and some close relatives, the Rowle family."

"Indeed," he said, steepling his hands on the table, leaning his forehead into his hands. Gently tapping his brow with his middle fingers, he felt, for the first time in this new era, at a loss. _A child? A three year old daughter? How had that come about? He hadn't left his old body with any means of procreating, taking away his ability to get hard, effectively rendering himself as an eunuch. The snake-faced, inferior him must have siphoned out the seed to impregnate the witch, he couldn't see any other solution. But why? If his old self wasn't dead already, he'd kill that body. This was an unforeseen complication, but it might have possibilities._

"Where's the mother?" he shot at Malfoy.

The man twitched, and replied hurriedly: "She's dead, her name was Bellatrix Lestrange."

_Great. Just great. His other self had impregnated someone who, after what he had read, was clearly as unhinged as himself. The child could be positively batty!_

Staring down Malfoy, he commanded: "I want to see her. Now, before noon. If she's my sister, I would like to be in touch with her, maybe one day even care for her, after I'm settled."

Malfoy blinked, and said: "Of course, Mr. Riddle. I'll escort you."

Xxxx

He stared down at the small, blonde child playing on the floor, trying to ascertain if he felt anything for her. _Some kind of fatherly affection, perhaps? Even he should feel something for his own child. At the very least, he should feel happy that she was safe and well. Maybe it would come in time. A blood relative – the concept seemed foreign to him, and he wasn't sure what to make of the situation._

She was playing with the toy wand he had brought her, and was happily making small explosions, ruining her toys. He sat down on the floor beside her, long legs crossing, and looked at her. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, as he saw her joy in destruction.

"You like destroying things?" he asked the child softly.

"Yep," she said decisively, waving her stubby wand at her stuffed pig, ripping off a leg.

He took her chin in his hand, looking into his daughter’s big, brown eyes, and entered her mind. _It was jumbled, flitting from emotion to emotion, but there was also a keen intelligence, and a thirst for ruining things that he could relate to. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad at all. He had things to teach her. She could be useful in the future, and as for now, a nice accessory to his new, kinder image._

"Delphini, I am your big brother," he said to her.

The child furrowed her little brow, and pouted: "I don't have any brother. I don't _want_ a brother!"

"You do now, surprisingly enough for both of us," he said, giving her a small smile. "Why don't I show you how to Levitate the remains of your teddy bear?"

Xxxx

At dinner, he got an owl from Harry Potter. It simply read, in a rather messy scrawl, _If you're available, meet us at the Ministry tomorrow at ten, at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. – HP._

Voldemort grinned. _This was according to plan._ He couldn't help giving the note an approving nod, because it was prudent of Potter and his friends to meet him, backed up by the Ministry. Anything else would have been nothing short of stupid. _It really didn't matter, though, it would of course prove disastrous for them in the end._ His job tomorrow was to build a foundation for trust. They didn't know it, but tomorrow, the Golden Trio would begin a ‘friendship’ with Lord Voldemort.

Blotting his mouth with his serviette, he motioned for the waiter to refill the glasses of champagne in front of them. He lifted his glass to the Minister for Magic and his pretty little Half-blood wife, and said with a studied look of open honesty: "Kingsley, I'm so happy, Harry Potter and his friends have invited me to meet them tomorrow. Do you think they'll forgive me for the sins of my father?"

Xxxx

Voldemort had dressed with care for the meeting. A storm-gray silk shirt, black trousers, and a black robe on top – there was no need to give anyone the impression that he would _ever_ wear colourful robes. Ntering, the Ministry, he waved cheerfully to the now familiar faces of the guards at the security stand, and sauntered off to the elevators. The golden doors of the elevator clanged open in front of him, and he entered, pushing the button for level two for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Fluttering memos entered with him, making a rustling noise as they zoomed impatiently around, and the elevator stopped at each floor. As the fourth level was announced, the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, a young, short, bushy-haired witch entered, looking to be in a hurry, as she was tapping her foot impatiently while jamming her finger repeatedly into the button for level two.

His breath caught. _Lovely – this was none other than Hermione Granger herself._ He noted that she was pretty in real life too, though she didn't appear to spend as much time dressing or grooming her hair for work as she did for those parties he had seen pictures of. In fact, he'd bet he had spent more time perusing his closet this morning than she had. As he surreptitiously assessed her, he noted that her face was heart-shaped, with large, caramel eyes, and that big, brown hair had golden strands catching the light. He nodded approvingly to himself, she would do very well. In fact, even very nicely, his cock informed him by a small, stirring in his silk boxers.

"It won't go any faster, you know," he said with a smile, looking down at her.

She spun around with a frown, and then her eyes widened as her gaze travelled up to his face. "Shit! It's you!" she blurted out, and he nodded at her.

"Hello, Miss Granger," he said, opting for a neutral tone, but he couldn't help the purr of satisfaction in his voice.

She stared at him for a long moment, before coming to a decision.

"Hello, Mr. Riddle," she said, stretching out her hand. He shook it, noticing that her hand was very small, warm and dry.

"Please, call me Tom," he said, feigning embarrassment. "I've never really _claimed_ that name as my own." _It was the honest truth, too, but for now, it had to do._

"Oh, right," she said nervously. "You must call me Hermione."

He gave her another smile, meeting her eyes, before saying: "It'll be my pleasure."

She kept glancing at him, looking suspicious, until the elevator clattered to a final halt, and they entered the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

"To the right," Granger pointed, "the Auror offices are through this corridor."

They passed several offices, and he was pleased to notice conversation stilling as they walked by. Whispers and pointing broke out in their wake, and he felt his back prickle, like someone was thinking hard about hexing him. Granger seemed to sense the uneasiness, and she took his arm, ushering him along. "Don't bother," she said under her breath, "it's all talk."

He shrugged, but said equally low at her: "Being hunted makes all those instincts for survival bloom."

She shot him a quick grin, and said: "I know."

_He supposed she would, as his former self had hunted her for a year. Though, he had been hunted in his childhood, and it had never really stopped. Not in the orphanage, at least. And those first years in Slytherin had been rough, before he showed them who the real predator was._

"In here," she said, rapping her knuckles on a door.

"Enter!" a young man's voice called out.

"It's Harry," she said, peering at him with curiosity, assessing his reactions with a keen eye. He took a deep breath, and went inside to see his enemy.

Harry Potter was young, fairly handsome and very nervous. He was fiddling with a golden ring on his left hand, and those green eyes locked on to his face. Potter breathed out: "By gods, you really _are_ his spitting image, aren't you?"

Voldemort allowed himself to wince, and said: "So they say. Not much I can do about that, though."

The two men stared at each other for a moment, before Harry said, gesturing to a chair: "Please sit down. Ron will be here in a minute, he's just getting us tea."

"Thanks," he said, lowering himself into a chair. Granger stood beside him, and he noted with amusement that he was still marginally taller than her, even though he was sitting and she was standing. She wore an overlarge maroon shirt and a black pencil shirt underneath black, plain work robes, but he could still see that even though she was thin, her breasts were decently sized. _In fact, he almost got hard by thinking of the fact that he would seduce her, making his mortal enemy plead for his cock, and scream his name as he took her roughly, bruising those tits with his hands as he came inside her._

Pulling his mind out of those pleasant fantasies, he sat still, keeping an open and honest look on his face. Potter was scrutinizing him, clearly sceptical, and Granger was busy Transfiguring her rickety spindle-back chair into something more comfortable. He noted her technique with interest, and nodded approvingly as she, with a final wave of her wand, got herself an upholstered, comfy chair.

"Good idea," he said, Transfiguring his own chair into something similar. Both of them gasped at the flick of his magic, executed in a blink of an eye, and Potter became stone-faced.

"What?" he said, "did I do something wrong?"

"Impressive," Potter said, "I never saw anyone use wandless and wordless magic like this, except…" The name was left unsaid, but it was obvious.

Voldemort felt like rolling his eyes, but said politely: "I grew up doing mostly wandless magic, but I got myself a wand this week. It's nice, but I'm not sure I need it for everyday magic."

Potter relaxed a little, and then the door banged open, a tea tray came in, and after the tray the large, gangly figure of Ronald Weasley entered. Out of the corner of his right eye, he saw Granger stiffen. _It was like that for the moment, eh?_ he thought with satisfaction. _The two lovebirds were ...not ... that friendly at the moment._

"Here it is," he said, putting it down on the table. Turning to Voldemort, he gave a tentative smile, and stretched out his hand. "Ronald Weasley, how do you do?"

Voldemort rose from his chair, grasped his hand and shook it, and said politely: "Tom Marvolo Voldemort Riddle. How do you do?"

Harry blushed in his chair, and stammered: "Sorry for being so impolite, I never greeted you properly." He rose, and they shook hands over the table.

Granger took charge of the tea things, pouring him, Harry and herself steaming cups, pointedly leaving Weasley out. Voldemort nodded a thank you to her, giving her an admiring look that made a faint blush creep up her neck. _Susceptible,_ he thought, pleased with himself as he sipped his tea.

Clearing his throat, he said, putting an earnest expression on his face: "I guess you have read my story. The reason why I wanted to meet with you, is merely to say thank you. You saved Britain, but also myself and my mother from our life as refugees. I also wanted to tell you in person, since I'm planning to stay in Britain for a while, that I have absolutely no hard feelings for the death of my father, quite the opposite. And I hope, sincerely, that you won't hold my origins against me, when the truth is my mother was forced and seduced by my father."

"Of course not," Granger said, her suspicious, sharp eyes suddenly transforming into warm pools of molten chocolate. _He had read about her need to defend things, and almost smiled to himself of how she would look if she knew she gave her protection to Lord Voldemort._

Potter looked confused and uncertain, looking to Granger for guidance, and it fit perfectly with his research: Harry Potter went by his instincts, and his instincts were _good._ Still, he had been rather easy to fool for his old, decrepit snake-like self, what with the Battle of the Ministry debacle. He, of course, would be infinitely better and more convincing than his former self. Harry Potter would come around, he was sure. Weasley just nodded, seeming to be rather carefree and trusting.

Assessing them, he determined that Granger indeed would be his way into the Golden Trio, like he had initially thought, but she was also the one most likely to find him out. Young Potter wouldn't be a real threat. Weasley seemed like a trusting, nice enough fellow, but him famously abandoning Potter and Granger in the woods, plus the stormy, very public relationship with the brilliant Granger spoke of someone with quite a lot of temper. Voldemort risked a quick peek into Weasley's mind, and he almost wanted to shout in glee. _The man was a veritable treasure of insecurities, anger and lack of willpower and concentration. He'd be the perfect gunpowder to the Trio, if Voldemort lit the fuse._

First, he needed to find out how to seduce Granger away from her boyfriend. It was important to find out if Granger was a girl who would appreciate a man who was out and about, or if that would be a turn-off for her. For now, he decided he would have to get his pleasures while glamoured, to make sure he didn't botch something with her at this early stage. _Or_ , he speculated, _would his own tension due to a lack of release make him more intense and believable to her? Really, it depended on how observant she was. As for now, he rather thought she didn't miss much._

And, right on cue, she asked: "Your English is perfect, really, one would think you had grown up in this country."

He nodded, saying: "I have a knack for languages. I'm fluent in French, German, Italian, Portuguese and Arabic, and I do passably well in Mandarin, Japanese, Tibetan, Russian and Finnish."

Granger looked stunned, saying: "How do you do that? Do you read in these languages too?"

He arched an eyebrow at her, answering: "Of course! That's the whole point, isn't it, to read magical texts without anything getting lost in translation spells. And, it's very useful for travelling and staying in different parts of the world."

She perked up, questioning: "You read a lot?"

"Definitely," he said, letting his eyes rest too long on her. "I read all the time."

Giving him the first, real smile, she replied: "Me too. I love to read."

Weasley snorted, and said contemptuously to her: "Maybe you should get together to read, then."

She bristled, but he took charge of the situation by beaming to Weasley: "It's a brilliant idea! Are you a reader too?"

The ears of the young man reddened, and he mumbled: "Not really. More of a sports guy, myself."

"Ah. You play Quidditch very well, right? I think I read about that."

"Obviously you _read_ about it," the young Weasley snorted, but he couldn't help giving Voldemort a pleased look. _Enjoys flattery,_ Voldemort duly noted.

"So, you've read about the things that happened here?" Potter asked, still looking guarded.

He sobered his expression, and said: "I wanted to know what happened. I've read all the biographies on my father that exist." Adding wryly, he murmured: "And also some that probably shouldn't have existed."

At that, Granger snorted, and she said humorously: "I assume you're talking about Antonin Dolohov's _My Life with the Dark Lord_?"

His mouth twisted, and he said, failing at hiding his displeasure at the mention of that _dratted_ book: "Yes. It was an awful read. Who knew the man even knew his letters, the way he behaved?" Belatedly, he added: "According to other sources, he was positively brutal and stupid."

_That book - THAT book! He’d kill Antonin for putting all that out there. Antonin had chosen a sentimental tell-all approach, laying it thick, creating a story where Antonin was the hero, the voice of reason, as if that fucker ever had the ability to restrain himself. Voldemort had destroyed the copy he had read in a fit of rage, vowing to make sure Antonin got a more than painful death for this mockery of a story._

His slip went unnoticed, as Potter grinned, saying: "I've heard he dictated it in Azkaban. There are some people who volunteer to visit the Death Eaters, and there was a girl who wrote down his rantings."

Voldemort quirked his eyebrow, saying: "Poor girl. I’m surprised she came back for more, when she had to listen to _that._ Why would anyone go to Azkaban, anyways?"

Potter shrugged, and told him with an earnest look: "I did. To get some closure. It was good to see them all behind bars. Maybe you should, too?"

He almost gaped at Potter, before the hilarity of the idea almost bowled him over. Forcing his eyes down, so the Trio didn't see the mischievous amusement dancing in his eyes, he mumbled: "Maybe you're right. I don't know if they trust me enough to let me through, though."

They were quiet for a while, Potter still fiddling with his ring. Then he took a deep breath, like he had made a momentous decision, and looked him straight in the eyes: "I would like to invite you to dinner. Come over on Friday at seven, and you too, of course," he motioned at Granger and Weasley.

Voldemort almost exulted, and he let the emotion through in a wide grin. "Why, thanks!" he said, genuinely pleased. "I'm flattered."

Granger nodded imperceptibly at Potter, and he could see the young man's relief at her approval. _Granger was influential. She might be pretty, but she was no easy pushover. He would have to deal with her like the formidable, albeit sexy enemy she was._ His cock twitched in anticipation, as Granger gave him a long, considering look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, on FFnet, I got a lot of questions if introducing Delphini meant I was going with the Cursed Child storyline. Obviously, I'm not. ;-) Delphini is just a kid, and Voldemort is a ...not ... so stellar father, lol.
> 
> Also, I'm not really a fan of Lucius' character, but Jason Isaac is hot, though.


	4. Dinner at 12 Grimmauld

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Granger swivelled her head, staring sharply at him. "How did you do that?" she demanded. "I've been trying for years!"
> 
> "Permanent Sticking Charms aren't permanent," he said politely. Cocking his head at her, he gave her an honest smile. He did like the way the girl obviously was interested in knowledge and theories. It would make him less bored in the long run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading (or re-reading)! <3

Friday morning, he met with Shacklebolt in his office. He was sure the Minister was now completely at ease in his company, and they chattered amiably as they waited for the Head of the Department of Mysteries, one Saul Croaker.

“My wife simply adored that book you recommended the other day...” Shacklebolt began. Then the Floo flared green, and a tall, dour, sandy-haired wizard stepped out of the shimmering fire, brushing soot and Floo powder from his yellow robes.

“Ah, there you are, Saul," Shacklebolt beamed at the man. 

Voldemort glanced at him, his polite expression fixed firmly on his face. 

"Greetings, Minister, pleased to meet you, Mr. Riddle," the wizard said with a nod.

Voldemort rose from his chair, extending his hand to the wizard. Croaker looked at his hand like he had no idea what to do with such a thing, before he clasped Voldemort's hand with a weak handshake and a faint sneer of distaste.

He could feel his jaw tightening, but kept his face schooled into a pleasant smile. 

"Tom," Shacklebolt said earnestly. "As you know, I'd be very pleased if you'd enter the services of the Ministry. I think we've found a position at the Mysteries which could be interesting for a man of your talents."

"Yes," Croaker said listlessly, "my Head at the Research Office on Thought is retiring. As your test scores on Mind Magic were nothing short of spectacular, the Minister has ordered me to offer you the position. You'll head an office with twenty-three people, not bad for a young fellow like you."

Voldemort felt his anger creep up on him, as it was clear Croaker thought he didn't have enough experience. _Him? Lord Voldemort, not experienced enough? This was like Dippet denying him the Defense post all over again after his seventh year. Well, Dippet had never really recovered, had he? He had a rather severe, magical arthritis for the rest of his life, stumping his magic in a most unpleasant manner._

"Well, now," Shacklebolt laughed nervously, "Croaker isn't the most enthusiastic of my Department Heads, but rest assured, Tom, he's suitably impressed by your scores. The whole Department is looking forward to your arrival – if you'll accept, that is."

Forcing himself into a delighted smile, he said: "I'd be happy to. Research is just the thing for me, I believe, and Mind magic is one of my specialities."

"We'll see. You can start on Monday at nine a.m.," Croaker said laconically, rose from his chair and left without saying goodbye.

Voldermort stared after the man, vowing to himself that Croaker was in for some rather spectacular accidents or illnesses. _Quite soon._

Xxxx

Shucking off his shoes, he stretched his long arms over his head, yawning as his fingertips reached the wooden ceiling. His room at the Leaky Cauldron was fairly large, with an old fashioned, ornate box-bed, probably dating from medieval London, and a large fireplace with a comfortable chair. The narrow mullioned window facing Diagon Alley only let in a little light, leaving the room in a perpetual dim state. 

Opening the door to the bed, he threw himself down on the mattress, hands behind his head, as the old bed groaned and creaked under his weight. The room had that particular smell of very old wood, but he quite liked it. _Old things were proof that things could last forever, just like what he wanted for himself. Old things felt … like safety, like insurance._

Summoning the book he had just bought on Transfiguration, ‘ _Transfiguring Living Matter’_ by the French scholar Méreuil Descoupés, Lord Voldemort sighed with content. _This was one of the things he loved best in life. To be all alone, with no places to be, having all the time in the world to just read. Read, and relax. Tomorrow, he’d be out there again, playing the role of good Tom, but tonight, he could be himself. The one persona he never showed the world openly: Just a wizard named Voldemort, a wizard who couldn’t care less if the world went up in flames around him, as long as he could study magic to his heart’s content._

Xxxx

He rang the doorbell at 12 Grimmauld Place, remembering all those occasions when he had been invited there in the forties and the fifties. The house had been resplendent then, but now, the outside seemed a little scruffy.

From inside, the clamouring of a small dog grew closer, and he heard Potter yell: "Not now, Sirius, quiet!"

The door with the faded paint opened, and Potter peered out, giving him a welcoming smile, his hands occupied in keeping the small, yapping West Highland White Terrier inside.

Voldemort smiled, putting on his charming face, stretched out his hand to Potter, and stared the terrier deeply into its eyes. _Shut up!_ he commanded it, and the irritating yapping suddenly ceased. Instead, the dog whined slightly, wagging its tail and trying to lick his hand.

"Sorry, he's a bit over excited. His name is Sirius." Potter said, embarrassed.

"I don't mind," he said blithely to the young man. "I enjoy animals." _It was true, too, he had an affinity with animals, both magical and Muggles._ They always listened to his suggestions and commands, even to the detriment of their own welfare. Scratching Sirius' ears, he said gravely to him: "I know you'll be a good boy." Conjuring a dog biscuit, he fed the small dog, making him run off with its prize towards the back of the house.

Stepping inside the grand hallway, he saw that very little had changed. A big drapery was hanging on the opposite wall, but apart from that, it seemed very much like he remembered it. Even the ugly umbrella stand made from a troll's leg was in place, and he wondered what on earth had made Potter keep that blasted thing.

Suddenly, the drapes on the other side of the hall fell back, and a portrait of a woman, larger-than-life, screeching and spitting became visible. "MUDBLOOD FILTH HAS ENTERED THE NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK! SHE'S IN THE BASEMENT! EXPELL HER, KILL HER, DEMOLISH HER!" the portrait shrieked. He stared at it in surprise, before his brain connected the dots. _Shit, this was Walburga Black. She would…_

Suddenly, the portrait became still, and the woman croaked out: "My Lord? Is that really you, after so many, long years…?"

Harry Potter said: "Fuck, I'm sorry, she's stuck into the wall by a Permanent Sticking Charm, we have not been able to remove her…"

The portrait was still hovering in her frame, reaching out a hand to him, whispering tremulously, "Is that really, really you… My Lord?"

He made a quick decision, striding forward. "You're mistaken, whoever you are." he said coldly, ignoring the confused blathering from the portrait. "Would you like me to remove it?" he asked Potter, arching an eyebrow.

"If you can manage, we'd be grateful. We've tried for years, and I'm starting to think I have to remove the wall itself. She's a living hell," Potter said, exasperation heavy in his voice.

Shrugging, Voldemort checked the so-called _Permanent_ Sticking Charm, noticing that the endpoint for unravelling the charm was cleverly hidden in an almost invisible, double loop. Glaring coldly at Walburga – _stupid bint, now apparently more crazy than ever before –_ he Dismantled the Sticking Charm, making the portrait crash onto the floor, falling face forward. After the reverberating thud as the frame hit the floor, the hall became very still. Only Potter's breathing was heard.

"You did it…" Potter said weakly, pushing his glasses towards the bridge of his nose, like he couldn't believe what he had just seen.

"Are you going to keep the portrait?" Voldemort asked the wide-eyed young man. _He certainly had no use for someone who had known him in his youth, and he planned on visiting 12 Grimmauld Place quite often._

"Eeerrr, well, I haven't thought about that…" Potter said.

Voldemort pushed forward: "You want it destroyed? She doesn't seem very nice."

"I don't know," the young man muttered, scratching his hair, looking bewildered, before his voice rose, saying with determination: "I'll put her into the basement, maybe some of her relatives would want it."

Voldemort shrugged, and Levitated the portrait facedown, leaving her bobbing in the air. "Maybe you'd like her Silenced," he suggested to Potter.

"Yes, please, if you know how!" Potter said eagerly.

Flipping his wand at her, he put a quick _Tongue-Eraser_ on the portrait, leaving it impossible for the painting to talk.

"Thanks," Potter said, now beaming, as he waved his own wand, sending the portrait floating down the stairs. From the sound of, it smacked into corners on its way down. "Finally, it'll be possible to enter the house in peace."

"Pleased to help you," he said courteously to his nemesis.

Potter ushered him downstairs, into a grand, old-fashioned kitchen. He was very sure he had never visited the Black's kitchen – _it would have been virtually unheard of, if a proud, Pure-Blood family had entertained their guests in the kitchen –_ and he was amused to see Potter's fiancée, her looks screaming Weasley, albeit a _pretty_ Weasley, ordering a decrepit, old House-elf around, while Granger predictably was staring at her with disapproval on her face. _She had a thing for House-elves,_ he remembered, _wanting to free them from their bond._

"This is Ginny, my fiancée," Potter nervously introduced his witch, and the woman in question threw him an apprehensive smile, but she arched an eyebrow in obvious appreciation of his looks, while smoothing the skirt of her blue dress.

Grinning back at her with his best smile, he quickly went through her backstory. _She had been seduced by his Horcrux diary, when she was a mere slip of a first year. He would have to be careful, checking his vocabulary, manner of speech and way of expressing himself, though she mostly had had interactions with him in written form. It wouldn't do to make Ginny Weasley nervous, he had to do all he could to appease her._

"Charmed," he said, bowing over her outstretched hand, and as he raised his head, he gave her a friendly smile. "So, you're the future Mrs. Potter?"

"I am," she confirmed, casting a fond glance at Potter.

"Congratulations to you both," he said, looking at both Potter and Ginny Weasley, "by winning over respectively the saviour and the most beautiful red-head I've ever seen."

Ginny blushed prettily, and Harry made a choking noise.

The red-head smiled at him, saying: "You're quite the charmer. Did you spend time around the Mediterranean?"

He chuckled amiably, arching an eyebrow at her: "You mean I’m a Latin charmer? Who – me?" His arms outstretched, and his face set into an expression of exaggerated, mock innocence, he waited for her response.

"Yes, _you_ ," she said with a coy smile, and by that, he knew he had won her over. No matter how charming his sixteen year old diary self had been, he would never have playfully admitted to being _caught_ , not even as part of a ploy to charm someone. His sixteen year old self had been hard-working, serious and too quick to anger to admit to anything. _Not that he wasn't quick to anger now, he was merely better at hiding it._

"Call me Ginny," the red-head said, standing beside Potter, leaning into him, stroking his arm with the familiarity only a loving relationship can bring.

"Certainly, and you must call me Tom, just Tom," he said with an earnest expression.

Turning to the Golden Girl, catching her eyes rolling at the flirtatious tone, he said with an eager smile: "Hermione, I would hope you could give me a tour of the library after dinner. I've heard about the Black library."

"Sure," she said, giving him a perfunctory nod. _Was there something wrong?_ Then he saw Ron Weasley standing in a corner, scowling at her, dressed in grey sweatpants and a hoodie. _At least, he believed it was called a hoodie. No one had worn anything like that in the fifties. But more importantly, the bitter glances showed that they still were in a rough patch: The two lovebirds were not on speaking terms. How perfectly lovely._ Grinning, he went off to shake Weasley's hand.

"Pleased to see you again, Ron," he said, secretly amused by the way Weasley plastered a forced smile on his face as he shook his hand.

"Would you know," Potter said excitedly, "he was able to Unstick Walburga's portrait? Gin, we're rid of her!"

Granger swivelled her head, staring sharply at him. "How did you do that?" she demanded. "I've been trying for _years_!"

"Permanent Sticking Charms aren't permanent," he said politely. Cocking his head at her, he gave her an honest smile. _He did like the way the girl obviously was interested in knowledge and theories. It would make him less bored in the long run._

"Not permanent? I thought that was rather the point, making sure it wouldn't just unravel in time," she said, knitting her eyebrows in confusion. "I've researched for a counter-spell, but haven't been able to find one."

"There isn't one," he said, taking a seat on the other side of the table from her. "The naming is misleading, really, so you have to look closely for the endpoint to unravel the spell. Usually, it's hidden, and in this Charm, it was hidden very well by a double loop."

She breathed out, understanding dawning on her face, before she looked at him with consternation, saying: "Why doesn't the Charms literature just say so?"

He shrugged. "Maybe because it isn't common knowledge. I discovered it by accident one day when I was prodding at one to test some theories on spell construction."

Her eyes brightened. "You construct spells? Can you show me?"

"Certainly," he said courteously, racking his brain for spells that weren't either known as signature Lord Voldemort or downright mean. _He would have to improvise. There was no way he'd want to reveal himself by accidentally showing her a spell that was either in common use by now or that would point to his former self._

"Dinner is almost ready, Kreacher is almost done," Ginny Weasley said, a fond look in her eyes as she glanced at Hermione, who scowled back at her. "Maybe you'd be better off waiting to construct spells until after dinner."

Xxxx

Later, in the library, they were all relaxing with a Firewhisky, everyone mellowed and happy by the good food and copious amounts of wine. Discreetly, he'd cast two sobering spells at himself, not wanting to slip up with anything in the company of the Golden Trio. Even the snippy remarks between Granger and the male Weasley had lessened somewhat, and they had even shared a smile. They were still keeping their physical distance, though.

Ginny Weasley was scratching the ears of the small dog, Potter sitting beside her with his arm slung around her shoulders. Weasley was slouching in a chair, flipping a small, miniature Quaffle from hand to hand. 

Granger was giving him the tour of the library, and he could tell that she _was_ affected by him, by her rosy cheeks and frequent glances. For himself, he made sure that he stood a little too close to her, but he made no advances apart from that. _Though he wanted to,_ he had to admit to himself.

She looked lovely, her hair pinned halfway up, but a mass of curls tumbled down from the pin, the light brown colour sparkling with golden strands in the warm light of the fireplace and the burning candles. She was dressed in a rather tight, form-fitting turtleneck sweater, showing the contours of her breasts nicely, and a black skirt, accentuating the swell of her hips and her arse. His cock twitched in his pants, and he forced his growing erection down. _There would be time for that later._

"Have you read _every_ book in here?" he asked, letting his amazement colour his voice, after her extremely thorough description of what kind of books each shelf held. He noted that the Blacks had expanded their library significantly from the fifties, probably due to Orion's voracious reading habits. The section with several books on how to dye clothes using poisonous mushrooms to affect the wearer's mood had to be Walburga's, though, and he wondered if this practise had contributed to her madness.

She blushed prettily, and said: "Every book, except one."

Arching his eyebrows, he said: "I suppose you read rather fast, then."

"Fast?" snorted Ron Weasley. "She reads like a Firebolt v4! No one has ever seen anything like it."

Curious, he turned to her, and she nodded, still a little red. "I read much faster than anyone I know," she confirmed.

He gave her a long, slow smile, letting his eyes linger on her, before he replied: "Me too." Pleased, he saw her breathing accelerate a little, and she looked away from him.

"Which book did you leave out?" he said, his curiosity winning out.

Potter sniggered, and said: "She would have read that one too, if she could manage to translate it."

He looked at her questioningly, saying: "Why wouldn't it translate? There are books in several languages here, and unless you speak more than a handful languages, you'd have to use translating spells."

She scowled, marching to one of the shelves, picking out a book before thrusting it into his hands, like it had offended her.

 _Oh. It was in Parseltongue, the one language that barred translation._ He glanced at Potter, wondering if he had retained his Parseltongue ability.

Deciding to go out on a limb, he said casually to Potter: "You can surely read this, why haven't you translated it for her?"

Potter shrugged, and said: "I can't anymore, my ability disappeared when _he_ died. It was only the connection that made it possible for me, not my own, innate ability."

"Ah," he said, thinking: _Good to know, Potter._

Suddenly, Potter caught on, frowning: "Hang on, can _you_ read it?"

"Yes," he said, "it seems to be a hereditary trait."

The mood became uneasy, and he could see both Potter and Ginny Weasley fidget. The quiet was broken by Granger, saying: "Well, what does it say?"

He laughed at her bossy tone, but her expression was one of a desperate curiosity. _Gods, she really was a swot, anxious to get access to more knowledge._

"Let's see," he said slowly, at the same time wondering how the Blacks got their hands on such a prize. There was, to his knowledge, very few books in Parseltongue at all. Most written by his ancestors, at that.

Eyes flicking through the book, he shut it with an audible bang after a few minutes. Wryly, he said to Granger: "Are you sure you want to know? This is rather dark. You might sleep better if I don't tell you."

"Please, tell me," she said impatiently, her eyes filled with that burning thirst for knowledge that he could recognize as a match for his own.

"You really _need_ to know, don't you?" he said, chuckling. "Very well, if you insist. This is a book on how to milk various snakes for their venoms. It also includes several suggestions on how to use the venoms in potions, as well as several cooking recipes. The recipes have the added bonus of telling you how to mask the smell and taste of the snake venoms in the food. Basically, it tells you how to poison your dinner party, leaving none the wiser as to what happened."

Blanching, she almost took a step back, and he felt compelled to add: "Not all were killing poisons though, some had the effect of making you merely uncomfortable, causing minor illnesses."

Potter snorted with a bitter laughter: "I should have known that nothing good came out of a book in _that_ language."

"You can learn a lot from a snake," he responded mildly, "they are good observers, quite talkative, and most of them prefer to be left in peace."

"Hang on," Ginny Weasley said. She looked very uncomfortable, but pressed on anyway: "Minerva, I mean the Headmistress of Hogwarts, has talked about how she wants to reopen the Chamber of Secrets to put it to use for the students. She thinks it could be used as a duelling arena. The thing is, neither Harry nor Ron can manage to open it again, it seems stuck. _You_ could do it, though, because _you're_ the heir of Slytherin."

The silence in the library was ringing. He didn't bother to hide his grimace. _The fuck, he didn't want snot-nosed children running around in the Chamber, but there was nothing to it, he'd have to acquiesce to showcase his goodwill. Well played, Weasley,_ he thought angrily. Granger inched away from him, a look of tentative revulsion on her face, and he sighed, scrubbing his face. _This was a literal reminder of who he was – or rather pretended to be, and by the looks of it, too literal for comfort._

"I suppose I am," he said quietly. "How do you open it, then?"

"We only told it to open in Parseltongue," Potter said, "but now, it just hisses back. I have no idea what it says."

Voldemort shrugged. "If this Headmistress of yours wants me to try, I could always have a go."

"I'm sure she will," Ginny Weasley said, eyes a little too bright, like she was on the edge of a breakdown, close to crying. Potter squeezed her shoulder, and she leaned back into his arms, slowly relaxing.

Granger moved over to Ron Weasley, like she was seeking comfort too, and he slung his arm around her shoulder. The room was quiet for a while, and he pretended to peruse the shelf in front of him, seething on the inside. _The idea was to get these people to trust him, not drive them away. This had driven Granger back to Weasley, at least for the moment, and it was definitely NOT a part of his plan._

After a while, the two couples still cuddling into each other, Granger said: "What about your private life, Tom, if I may be so bold as to ask? Everyone read in the paper that you are single, but do you have a lost love in a far country or something?"

Still with his back against the group, he couldn't help feeling his back stiffen a little. Gruffly, he said: "As a matter of fact, I don't."

Turning around, he caught the fleeting, uneasy glances between the four, and he realized that this, _this_ , might be the most damning point he could have made. They were sure to compare him with the Lord Voldemort _they_ knew by this. He wanted to smack himself for his stupidity, but he could salvage this – maybe even make it work in his favour.

Sighing, he said quietly, like he was sad, bitter and heartbroken: "That is, there might have been a few chances over the years, but what was the point, really? We moved around all the time, staying months in one place at the most, so it was difficult to form any lasting, deep attachments. Better for everyone to not be too involved, though I can't say I was happy with it."

"Oh," Granger said, compassion winning over her suspicion again, and she moved towards him, patting his arm: "I'm sorry. I truly am. It must have been tough."

"Yes," he said, not meeting her warm, lovely eyes, like he was trying to hide his emotions, but really, he was schooling his features into _not_ showing his triumph. _Granger was convinced, and that was the most important thing._ Potter shared a dubious glance with Ron Weasley, but Ginny Weasley seemed just as convinced as Granger, her expression too filled with sympathy. _Good to know, he hadn't lost his touch with witches. The two wizards would come around, too._

So he played his trump card, saying: "It's getting late. Should I help you do the dishes? That House-elf seemed rather old, I guess he could use some assistance."

The look of surprise on the faces of the two wizards were comical, and he caught Potter's fleeting thought of " _Voldemort would never have offered something like that._ " Ginny Weasley looked suitably pleased, but Granger – _oh, she was positively starry-eyed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One small, new scene in this chapter, because I was wondering: What does Voldemort do when he's alone?


	5. A Passion for Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spell washed over them both, and her eyes widened as their magic brushed up against each other. He breathed deeply, relishing the caress of her power as it intertwined with his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few extended scenes in this chapter from the FFnet-version. :-)

On Sunday morning, on his way to get his early morning coffee fix, he spied Granger outside Flourish and Blotts. _Window-shopping,_ he rather thought, as it was too early for the shops to have opened. The cold January air made her breath mist, and she wore a woolen hat, jammed down over her tumultuous hair, her cheeks red in the bitter cold. 

He wasted no time, sweeping back the black cowl of his robe before approaching her. 

After the initial pleasantries, he asked: "Are you going out for breakfast? Mind if I join you?" before looking away, saying a little despondently: "Well, you're probably busy. I don't know all that many people here, it was just such a relief to see a familiar face…"

It seemed that emotional blackmail worked wonders on Granger, as her face became filled with compassion. "Certainly, I'd love too," she said, giving him a small smile.

He beamed at her, and said: "I have a favourite coffee place just across the street. Would that be amenable to you?"

"The Grounded Bean?" she asked, before nodding: "It's the best coffee in Diagon, I'm in. Just so you know, I'm always in for coffee."

Settling down at his favourite table, she asked: "You're a coffee addict too?"

He nodded, wondering what she'd order. He didn't peg her for being someone who'd go with more milk than coffee in her mug, but he wasn't all that sure about her sugar habits. She seemed to be very fond of pudding and chocolate, from what he had seen on his night at 12 Grimmauld Place.

He nodded to the huge blonde barista, still looking so incongruous in the modern coffee shop, like he should have wielded a greatsword on the battlefield instead, rather than making dainty wand movements over tiny mugs and grounding exquisite beans. The barista greeted him with a grin, and immediately started to prepare his first, double espresso, and as she ordered an Americano, Voldemort couldn't help arching a questioning eyebrow at her.

At that, she mumbled: "My stomach goes all haywire if I drink espresso all day. I need it to be a little more diluted to function. I know, it's the cowardly choice, Fleur has told me often enough."

He supposed Fleur would be the French Veela married to Bill Weasley, but didn't probe for more information. When the barista asked her how much hot water she wanted to add, he noted she didn't add much, it _was_ only a little.

He breathed in the scent of his espresso, before downing it rapidly – it was just perfect. The barista was well on his way to make the next, knowing he needed at least three to be satiated. Nibbling on his croissant, he watched with fascination as she savoured her first sip with closed eyes, lips slightly pursed as if expecting a kiss. His cock gave an impatient lurch, as he took in the contented, little sigh she breathed out when the flavour hit her tongue. _He was sincerely hoping that she'd fall hard and fast for him, because he just couldn't wait to get his hands on her. He wanted to feel her sigh like that, with her soft lips wrapped around his throbbing cock…_ Shifting on his chair to adjust his trousers, he leaned back, continuing to watch her.

Then she asked: "I was moved when you offered to do the dishes to spare Kreacher from doing the work on Friday. You may not know it, but I'm very interested in House-elves, and I feel it's awful, the way they are bound to wizards in enslavement."

"I had _no_ idea," he said drily. _After all, her efforts in freeing House-elves had featured rather prominently in several articles on her, and it was widely known that her work in the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was focused on House-elves._ Giving her a wry smile, he said: "Seriously, I know, I've read about it."

"So where do you stand in this matter?" she said, eyes inquisitive and bright, locked on him.

He received his second espresso, downing it at once, and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin before saying: "I think you're going about it the wrong way."

She narrowed her eyes, and he almost smiled – _it was clear she was used to resistance and being told she was wrong. Goading her was … fun. And it was remarkably easy to push her buttons._

Patiently, he waited for her to pounce, and sure enough, she demanded with a frown, her tone bossy and irritated: "What do you mean by that? I thought you might care more for House-elves than the usual run-of-the-mill-wizard, but I might have been wrong."

Shrugging, he said innocently: "I merely think you're looking in the wrong direction. You shouldn't be aiming for freeing one after another, because that will only perpetuate the bond of servitude for the freed elves, making them miserable. You should look into removing the bond for the whole species. If you managed to do that, you would find out if they really enjoy serving, or if they, left to their own devices, would do something different."

"Oh," she said, her expression somewhat embarrassed. Then she frowned, saying: "For the whole species…" a sceptic look on her face.

"Yes," he said, now leaning eagerly over the table towards her. "It stands to reason that the bond isn't natural. Someone must have bound the species to wizards sometime in the past. If it was made by a spell, it can be undone by a spell. You just need to research it properly."

She seemed to become excited, despite her misgivings, and said: "How would I go about researching something like this?"

Shrugging, he said: "Do you know any elves that would help you research? You should at least get one that's already freed from service, and one that's still in service to a family. The differences and similarities should point you in the right direction of determining the bond's nature."

She nodded, asking reluctantly: "But _what_ do I have to do?"

Smiling a little, he realized it galled her to have to ask.

"I'm not an expert," he said slowly, while smirking to himself inside: _Actually, I am_ , _magical bonds and_ _their properties have always been an interest of mine,_ "but I suppose you would do well to explore their minds, their limits, their deepest desires, their very beings, what makes them into House-elves. If I have to guess, this sort of bond would be knitted into their very souls." Giving her an intent look, he continued slowly: "Of course, it might be painful for them when you rip out a part of their soul."

She looked stricken, starting to say something, but he smoothly talked over her efforts: "Then again, they might be all the more happy when you're done, and they are rid of their bonding."

Opening and closing her mouth, like she was unsure of what to say, at last she muttered unhappily: "I'm not very good at Mind Magic. I couldn't possibly pull off what you describe."

"What?" he said incredulously, while rejoicing inside, "you aren't?" _Everyone said she was so accomplished in everything, he hadn't dared to invade her mind for fear of being found out._

"No," she said with a sour twist to her mouth, clearly irritated by having to admit to a failure. "You see, I have this reputation of knowing everything, but I do have some limits. I'm pants at Occlumency or Legilimency. I can't keep anyone out, and I can't for the life of me enter the mind of someone else."

He pursed his lips speculatively, and risked a peek into her mind. She didn't twitch or move, and he realized with growing amusement that she wasn't even aware of his presence. Roaming for her impression of _him_ , he noted a strong, physical attraction, almost making her afraid, fearing what it would do to her shaky relationship with Weasley. She was also very much intrigued by his knowledge and background, but to his disappointment, he found that she was far from trusting him yet. In fact, he'd say she was downright suspicious _. He'd have to get closer to her. He could offer help with her project. For all he cared, the House-elves could use their new-found freedom to run away to Antarctica to serve the Humpbacked-Dragon Penguins._

Deciding to ring the bell, he said into her mind: "You didn't even notice me entering, did you?"

From her gasp and widening eyes, he could do nothing but chuckle, and he retreated from her mind. "Don't worry, I've left," he said, continuing: "I'm sorry. I just found it so unlikely, but I realize you're right. You'll need help in researching this."

She blinked, and said with suspicion: "And _you_ are well-versed in Mind Magic?"

"Most certainly," he said, "it's my speciality." Holding up his hands, he said to disarm her: "I know, I know, I can't help it. It might be an inherited trait. It has always been so, it's very easy for me."

She grunted, draining her coffee. "I can see that." Shaking herself, she asked: "It's scary, though, to know that someone can be in my mind without me even noticing. It’s like you lose control of your mind, baring your thoughts to someone else."

Nodding, he said, mimicking her words: "I can see that." Slowly, like an idea was just forming in his head, he added: "It's barely official, but Shacklebolt has offered me the position as Head at the Research Office on Thought at the Department of Mysteries. I start tomorrow."

Her eyes widened, and he caught a brief flash of envy. _Yes, she was ambitious, and she wanted to know why he, coming out of the blue, was offered a job like that, when she had to scramble for influence and position in her own job._

Smiling at her, he said: "We could work together on this, you know. As a joint research project on House-elves. How do you feel about that?"

Incredulous, she gaped at him. "Work with you? On this project? But I told you, I can't do it!"

He shrugged. "I believe there are such things as inter-departmental projects, isn't it? You could research the history of the House-elves and similar cases, while me and some of my researchers could work the actual Mind Magic."

A smile slowly lit up her face, and she beamed at him: "Yes, I would like that very much, that is, if my boss will allow it. I'll be finishing up my current project in two weeks, so maybe after that?"

Her hopeful look went straight to his groin, and the lizard part of his brain assaulted his higher brain functions with images of how he would love to see her on her knees before him, with such a hopeful look on her pretty face… _Gods,_ he thought, _I'm looking forward to the day I can take her. He couldn't help wondering if she would be able to take him into her throat, or if she would gag around his cock._ Giving her a smile in return to cover his desire, he was quite sure the tip of his cock was already leaking precum.

Xxxx

Sweeping through the corridors on his way to his new office, he admired the smooth, black stone and the lack of daylight. The Department of Mysteries looked _good_ : severe, oozing power with a glossy shine, and above all, it screamed _darkness_. To put it bluntly, it looked like a fitting place for Lord Voldemort. Pushing his magical signature at the black door at the end of the corridor, he moved into the Entrance Chamber. His clearance prevented the chamber from spinning, and he strode forward to the third door to the right, entering the Department's offices.

On the inside, 23 witches and wizards stood, waiting for him. At the sight of him, they applauded politely, looking at him with a keen curiosity. This manner of greeting took him by surprise, but he recovered quickly, waving at them. He noted that he had 15 wizards and eight witches in his staff. Glancing at the women, he wondered if any of them would be up to some kinks in the office with their boss. Then the crowd became still, expecting him to make a speech, apparently. _Oh well, he enjoyed speeches. He might as well give them a good one._

"I'm honoured to work with you," he began, "as you represent the brightest minds in Wizarding Britain. To research the mind, memory and thought, is a demanding, delicate process. As you all know, it takes only a little carelessness or too much force to destroy someone completely. Our job is to find out the why's, how's, what's and when's in the workings of the mind. You are all skilled in Mind Magic, covering different topics as Legilimency, Occlumency, Memory research on destruction and recovery, the power of the unconsciousness, logic and rationality, madness and illnesses of the mind, the projecting of illusions as well as forms of hostile takeover and mind control. Together we'll research protection and attacks, healing and destruction, and the borders between illusions and reality. We will create new knowledge and extend the boundaries of magic together."

Pausing as he judged his audience, he suddenly worried if he had let himself slip up. _This speech was too much like a rally for his Knights, the later Death Eaters. He'd have to restrain himself, though they seemed to eat it all up._

Clearing his throat, he continued: "I'm looking forward to learning what you all are working on, and I have quite a few ideas for new projects we can research together. Today and tomorrow, I want to have in-depth talks with each and every one of you, to get to know you better. We'll start in fifteen minutes, I'll be going alphabetically, but first, let me introduce myself. I'm Tom Marvolo Voldemort Riddle, the son of You-Know-Who, and I know Mind Magic as the back of my own hand. It's inborn, inbred or whatever, but the fact remains, I want to know more. That's why I'm here, because I have a need for knowledge. You do too, and together, we'll do great things."

He inclined his head to show that he was done, moving forward to greet and shake hands with everyone, but stopped short, as they applauded again, this time with force and gusto. _They had bought his speech. He was in._

Xxxx

Later in the day, he was fuming at the Management meeting. Here he was, sitting with that despicable Department Head Croaker and a sorry bunch of other Office Heads. The only one seeming to be of a half-decent mind, was Lauryn Melliflour, heading the Time Research. She was an old, stooped witch, but her eyes were full of a fierce intelligence and cunning. Both the Heads of the Love Office and the Prophecy Office were obviously very silly people, the first one a wizard seeming to be concerned solely with his looks, and the second one a middle-aged witch looking so dreamy and spaced out that he wondered if she was on some illegal potions trip. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that the witch running the Space Research, Amanda Trelligorn, was probably not at her best today, as she had a violent head cold, coughing and sniffling with runny, feverish eyes. _Maybe she was smart, though it was hard to say between her steady bouts of sniffling and gargling._

The dour, mindlessly _boring_ Croaker nattered on about the budgeting process, and Voldemort forced himself to pay attention. _Money and accounting had never been his strong side. First, because he had never had any money, preferring to live a parasitic lifestyle siphoning money from his followers, and second, because it didn't matter. Accounting was always only an Imperio away from being correct._

But his head whipped up when he realized that his predecessor hadn't suggested any new projects or any budgetary adjustments at all. His resources would be limited. Throwing himself out there, he started asking questions. Croaker's face became more and more pinched, until, in the end, he grudgingly promised to look over the Thought Offices budget again.

He supposed he shouldn't be all that shocked about the lack of budgetary initiatives from his predecessor. His employees had been pleasantly surprised at his goal to be involved in the actual research. The old wizard who had his post before, had obviously spent his time over the last twenty years drinking tea in his office.

Satisfied, Voldemort sank into the back of his chair, smiling slightly at the curious glances from his fellow managers, that is, except for the vapid expression on Tully Meringoe, the wizard running the Love Office. _Voldemort wondered idly what they did in that office. If the Head was anything to go by, it seemed like all they did was primping their looks. Maybe they were shagging. Anyway, he could see no use for an entire research group on love. It was useless, and a foolish waste of time and space. When Croaker was removed and Voldemort took over the department, he'd shut down the Love Office first thing._

Xxxx

To keep up his charade of looking for a partner, he went on _dates._ He figured it would look odd if he didn't, because really, which young wizard would turn down scores of witches throwing themselves at him? 

And throw themselves at him, they did. At the Ministry, in before and after meetings, in the halls and in the elevator, while he had lunch or when just randomly passing him in the Atrium. Witches winked, smiled, struck up a conversation, sidling closer to him, soft hands patting his arms, cooing at him. _To be frank, Voldemort had never seen that amount of attention before, and he suspected this was due to his newfound status and fame._

Consequently, over the next, two weeks, he met with a couple of witches, visiting restaurants and bars. Some were younger than himself, some older, but he made sure that all were considered as very _smart_.

At the same time, he made sure that it was publicly documented that he never went on two dates with the same witch, always saying goodbye outside their house. Proudly, he thought he succeeded rather well in cultivating his image as a wizard who _didn't_ find his dream witch.

Of course, no one had the faintest idea that he would sneak into the house belonging to the witch of the evening after a public farewell. In secret, he’d fuck them thoroughly, spending himself inside them, before casually Obliviating the sex from their minds by way of thanks for their services – and very meticulously casting a Contraceptive Charm. _There would be no more brats from his loins, he’d make sure of it._ Sometimes, he envisioned Granger as he pumped into a witch from behind, imagining her pert little bottom, as he grasped hold of the hips of his current date.

At work, he felt his temper flare just by the sight of Croaker, and he tried to calm himself down by chanting inwardly: _It will look strange if he's dead within the first month, wait, don't kill him yet_. He tried to relieve himself by planning various nasty mishaps and accidents, but realistically, he had to force himself into accepting that Croaker had to be removed, not _killed_. He just couldn't leave a trail of bodies – _yet._

Voldemort's aim was to make sure the removal would be painful enough to satisfy his needs. _What to do? Curse him with a disease, or humiliate him by making him do something wrong, like a crime?_ He sighed, there were just so many exciting possibilities to choose between.

Coffee with Granger was turning into an almost daily affair, and he found that he enjoyed her company. _She was smart, smarter than most people he had met, and mostly, she was able to hold her own in a discussion with him. More importantly, she knew how to shut up and read, too._ He could tell she enjoyed their meetings too, from the happy smiles she gave him during their discussions and her contented sighs when she downed her coffee, immersed in her reading.

Sitting across her at the Grounded Bean, he was leafing through a new edition of Transfiguration Monthly, while she was reading a heavy tome named _The Great Families: Manors, Money and Magical belongings_ , to research the House-elf project. She was pursing her lips as she read, brow furrowing, and he couldn't help himself, slipping into her mind.

_This is so unfair,_ she thought, _the Parkinson family own more than thirty-five House-elves. Imagine that, owning so many sentient beings without dying of shame? No wonder Pansy was such a cow. But it's interesting, they've owned elves since 1345, and I haven't been able to find any earlier mentions of elves. Maybe this originated with the Parkinson family?_

Smiling slightly, he nudged her mind in the direction of the Malfoys. _Everyone knew they had had a House-elf as early as 1300. At least, it was common knowledge in Slytherin House in the forties._ He amended to himself: _Maybe not something a Gryffindor descending from Muggles would know, though._

When her mind responded, he watched her resolve to research some more families, _especially_ the Malfoys. Bumping his leg into her to distract her, as her clever mind started to backtrack to discover how she had ended up with that conclusion, he noted with pleasure that her cheeks flushed slightly by his touch.

Xxxx

On Saturday, he met the Golden Trio and Ginny Weasley for lunch, and he complained loudly about his last date's stupidity.

"Did you know, there actually exists a witch out there believing Lord Voldemort to be a French Romance writer? Really, did she live under a rock? She's a highly trained official, a senior in the Department of Magical Transportation," he said, his anger audible in his voice. To tell the truth, he was rather furious with that particular witch, and he had taken her far more roughly than he usually did, pounding the woman up against her bedroom door, until she had sobbed, begging him to slow down. _He had indulged in a short round of the Cruciatus before Obliviating her, but it hadn’t helped. He still wanted to kill her, resolving to do so later._

Ron Weasley snorted, and said humorously: "We had been so much better off if that was true."

Potter rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched. "It wasn't a good match, then?" he said.

"As you can imagine, _no_ ," he said bitingly, shrugging. Granger was silently giggling, and at his inquiring glance she blurted helplessly out between bouts of laughter: "Can you imagine what kind of stories he would have written? 'Feel my snake, witch', 'She looked good in a green light', or 'The Death Eater Bride'."

Ron Weasley exploded into a great guffaw, and Potter and the female Weasley sniggered. Giving Granger an exasperated look, he said: "That is just _silly_ , Hermione. Or," he gave her a wicked smirk, "are you intimately acquainted with the genre?"

"Haha, no," she said, blotting her napkin at her eyes. "I've read my share of Muggle romance, but I've never read a Wizarding romance novel."

"Good for you," he mumbled, before adding, shrugging like he was disappointed and upset: "Still, I can't seem to find an intelligent witch who's interested in both magic and the contemporary society outside her own office."

Ginny Weasley laughed even more, before she said mischievously: "Such a shame for you that Hermione is taken, then. She fits your bill perfectly."

In surprise, his eyes flitted towards the redhead, and then involuntarily to Granger, seeing her blush prettily. Weasley was scowling, pulling his girlfriend into the crook of his arm. Voldemort swallowed. _How had Ginny Weasley known? He had meant to indicate a preference for witches like Granger, but he didn't want the whole Golden Trio and the Weasley family to be onto his plans this early._

Xxxx

He found out, soon enough, why Ginny Weasley had said something like that. Their daily coffee-dates had obviously been spotted. One day Ron Weasley was glowering outside the café window, knocking on the glass window. Granger rose from her chair, blanching slightly as she excused herself, hurrying outside.

_Weasley looked furious_ , he rather thought, and he slipped into his mind as Granger emerged on the street.

"Merlin, Hermione, you spend more time with _him_ than me!" The tall, burly Weasley was clearly angry, and he gripped her arm, scowling down at her. He felt a small twitch in his wand hand by seeing that, but leaned back, watching them surreptitiously through the window.

"We're just reading and talking, Ron!" Her frown was spectacular, and Voldemort enjoyed seeing Granger taking her fiancée on, trying to get the upper hand. _She looked pretty when she was riled up_ , he noted, her face flushed and her eyes flashing, not to mention the heaving of her chest.

"Gods, can't you see it? He's Lord fucking _Voldemort's_ son! He's trying to get into your knickers, I know it. Manipulative bastard, he is!" Ron Weasley's face was almost mottled in rage, his mouth torn into a sneer. Voldemort couldn't help himself, and laughing silently, he gave him a mental nugde, pushing him over the edge of rage, as Granger said:

"No, you've got it all wrong, it's nothing like that. We discuss magical theories and read, and he knows a lot..."

The young man exploded, banging his fist into the window, rattling it, shouting all over the street: "Fuck, 'Mione, I _know_ you! You're more than likely to be turned on by a book, or someone with knowledge. Add a pretty face to it, and you're all in. I bet you're getting soaking wet when he tells you something you didn't know!"

Voldemort lifted an astonished eyebrow as Granger's hair quite literally _bristled_ , almost emitting small sparks of involuntary magic. _She was a feisty one_ , he thought, rubbing his thumb over his lip, feeling a pleasant tingle of anticipation. Outside, the irate, little witch slapped her fiancée hard, shrieking: "Really, Ron, this is uncalled for, you're acting like a prat!"

_And oh, how he enjoyed that. Granger and Weasley – their tempestuous affair would get another spin in the Prophet after this, and it was all due to him._

Weasley turned on the spot, Apparating away, and Granger was left alone, chest heaving, as a flash and bang of a camera went off. 

Furiously, she marched inside again. Stopping at the counter, he heard her snap an order: “A caffé corretto. Make it with grappa, no - strike that - with Firewhisky!” 

Stomping back to her seat, she was glowering. He arched an eyebrow, asking carefully: “What happened?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Just Ron, being an arse. He thinks…” Stopping short, her face flushed. “I suppose I should apologize, because you’re going to be involved in this mess too.” 

“Oh?” He blinked, like he didn’t understand. 

Her face a bright red, she whispered: ”Ron thought I was … that I was… interested in _you_. That’s what he was shouting about. And tomorrow, this is going to be in the news, I’m quite sure. I'm sorry, Tom, I know you wouldn't want that.” 

Xxxx

He was lounging by the fireplace, trying to avoid inadvertently pushing the numerous pastel porcelain figurines crowding the mantel over the edge, while staring at his small daughter. It was impossible to wrap his head around the fact that he – _of all people_ – had produced a child. She was happily practicing the spell he had just taught her, Summoning toys from her room to the living room.

He had to admit, she had quite the control of her magic, but he guessed that was probably to be expected from his own flesh and blood. _Though, he wished someone had taught him spells from such a young age. Instead, he had invented his own, wandless magic. In the end, he supposed it had made him both stronger and more creative, but he most certainly would have had an easier life if a certain someone could have been bothered to stay alive to teach him._

The Rowle's living room was comfortable, and he could see his daughter was well-dressed with a plethora of toys. Most of it was paid for by the Malfoys, as the current Mrs. Malfoy seemed to be his daughter's aunt. Scrutinizing his inner self, he tried to work out if he had any feelings whatsoever towards the child, apart from calculating her usefulness. He tried to picture how he'd react if she was in danger. _Would he feel protective? Would he be angry on her behalf? She was_ **_his_ ** _, after all, like a sort of belonging, and he usually took care of his things. Well, maybe he could, with time, come to view her as a possession. For now, he was still feeling uneasy about the fact that he had procreated. Merlin, a living person who had a real blood claim on_ **_him._ ** _It was potentially dangerous._

"Mr. Riddle," Lucius Malfoy said nervously to him. The man was wearing a silvery, brocaded frock coat, of all things, underneath black, embroidered robes. Voldemort rather thought he looked like he was going to a costume party. _Abraxas had never looked as silly as that._ He wondered what the prudish, prim and proper Abraxas would have thought of his son's extravagant clothing. _Nothing good,_ he was sure, a wicked glint coming to light in his eyes.

Seeing the current version of the Malfoy branch blanch, he almost rolled his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek to refrain from grinning at the man's very tangible fear of him. _Abraxas had never been this afraid, at least not before he had completed his Time-traveling ritual._ "Call me Tom," he said, cocking his eyebrow arrogantly at that snobbish, vain creature. _A cane? Who the fuck hid their wand in a cane?_

The man trembled visibly, testing the name uncertainly: "Tom… I was wondering, you mentioned that you wanted to take her into your care. Have you made any plans for when this would happen?"

"Not yet," he said curtly. "I need a witch first."

Gobsmacked, Malfoy muttered: "Do you have plans for _marrying_ , Mr… Tom, I mean?"

_"_ Marrying." He tasted the unfamiliar word on his tongue. _Was that a viable option? Why not? He had a child, maybe he should get himself a wife too._ The thought made him want to laugh at the sheer _impossibility_ of it. _Him, Lord Voldemort, getting married?_

But then he considered the possible ramifications. It could be useful, dead useful, to attain his goals in this future world. With a wife, a wife beloved by the public, he would strengthen his image as an upstanding member of society, and consequently, it might become easier to slide into positions of power. Maybe he should marry Granger, instead of attaining her as his lover? Marriage hadn't been a part of his plans, but he could clearly see it unfold: The good publicity, the press, the cheering people, the blushing bride ready to be ravaged, not to mention the benefits he'd get from her promising her protection and devotion to him. _Yes, it could turn out better than merely keeping her as his lover, but he was not ready to include such a thing in his plans yet. He would have to consider it much more carefully. To live with Granger would surely be running a high risk of exposure._

"Maybe," he said out loud, and Malfoy blinked. "I have to find the right witch, though."

"Of course," the blonde wizard said with a nervous twitch of his left eye. "This is not a step to be taken lightly."

"Indeed. However," he said, giving Malfoy a glance to make him crumble, "I will announce Delphini as my sister to the public before that." Smirking, he wondered if the Ministry would deem that keeping such a secret as the existence of Lord Voldemort's daughter to be enough to land the Malfoys in Azkaban, _again._ From Lucius Malfoy's expression, he rather thought so.

Xxxx

They were lounging after another delicious dinner in the living room of Grimmauld, but the mood was bleak. Staring out the windows on the pouring rain outside, rivulets running down the glass panes, he twirled his wine glass slowly. Granger and Weasley were yet again not on speaking terms, and the piece in the Prophet had been less flattering for both of them. The gossip column had speculated that Ron was not only jealous, but violent too, and it had claimed that if Granger really was trying to hook up with himself, she wouldn’t succeed, because he’d have higher standards which she couldn’t meet. _He had snorted at that, while reading the filthy little story. In a way, it was true, because no one could really measure up to his level, but then again, he couldn’t see why they thought Granger was so bad. She was pretty enough, and certainly both powerful and smart._

Now, both of them were present, Weasley on the sofa with his sister, and Granger sitting primly in a wing chair by the fireplace. The fire burnt merrily, giving warmth to the inside battling the dampness from outside, but the glare the two of them gave each other was spectacularly chilling. Potter was leaning against the mantel, watching Granger and Weasley with worry in his eyes, obviously concerned about the faltering relationship of his two best friends.

_How to distract them from the uneasiness?_ Turning around, his eyes fell on the grand piano in the corner. _It could do in a pinch._

"Do you play?" he asked Ginny Weasley.

"No," the red-head smiled, though worry still tinged her eyes, as she slowly stroked the back of her brother.

"You play then?" he asked Potter.

"No, it came with the house. I suppose the Blacks must have played."

"Will you allow me?" he said with a smile.

"Go ahead," Potter said.

Voldemort sauntered over to the piano, rifling through the sheets of music in the shelf standing beside the piano. Sitting down, he looked at the ivory keys, as if in concentration, casting “ _Musicare”_ silently. Feeling the spell suffuse his hands and fingers, his eyes and brain somehow shifting to make him able to play the sheet music, he played a soft, soothing Chopin Nocturne.

When he was finished, the four applauded him, and Granger said with admiration: "You were really good, this was excellent."

Winking at her, he said: "It's a spell, not my skill, really."

"What?" she exclaimed with interest, "a spell? I had no idea you could use a spell to play music!"

"You have to have a rudimentary knowledge of the instrument," he said, "and I was taught piano in my childhood." _It was true too, at the orphanage, all the children were forced to learn playing an instrument, the idea being that this would endear them to prospective adoptive parents. Not that anyone had ever picked him._

Granger beamed, and said: "Me too! Can you teach me the spell? I stopped playing when I went to Hogwarts, and I've barely touched a piano since then."

"Certainly," he said, but Ginny Weasley interrupted:

"Can the two of you play four-handed? I love Schubert's Fantasie in F minor, it's such a wonderful piece."

His eyebrows shot up, having not expected Ginny Weasley to have a taste for classical music, but he supposed she _was_ a Pure-blood. It only stood to reason that she was familiar with the most famous wizard-composers, like Schubert. "Why not? Do you have the music?" he said. _Four-handed with Granger? Such a good idea for influencing her. Shame he hadn't thought about that himself._

"Yes!" Ginny said, "I know it's on the shelf. The Blacks left a lot of wizarding music, like Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin and Schubert."

Granger went to sit beside him on the bench, as he rummaged through the shelf, finding the sheets.

"Here it is," he said, turning to Granger. "I have to modify the spell slightly to let us play four-handed. Our magical powers will be touching as we play. Is that okay with you?"

"Well, yes, I suppose," she said, casting a quick glance at her glowering boyfriend, before turning back to him with an eager smile.

He took her hand, and whispered: " _Musicare ensemble."_ The spell washed over them both, and her eyes widened as their magic brushed up against each other. He breathed deeply, relishing the caress of her power as it intertwined with his. His power slithered over hers, like a snake exploring, hungrily tasting the air to find a source of warmth, while her magic burrowed into him, like a cat threading on soft paws, rubbing against his magic to set a scent mark and getting its fur stroked in the process. His spine tingled, this felt _delicious._

Sharing a smile, they both turned as one to the keys, their shoulders brushing against each other.

She played the right hand side, and the soaring, eerily haunting melody floated over the room, making goosebumps form on his neck, travelling down his spine. His bass melted into the flow of the music, creating a dark counterpoint to the light airiness of her melody. As the piece moved on, his playing became a dangerous undercurrent, a sinister thunder to the bewitching, sad softness of her music. At the more light, playful parts, he felt like they shared an intellectual banter, their magics chasing, nipping at each other, before it evolved into the song of the main theme, swelling into the passionate ending, before dying out with a whisper.

At the end, she was flushed, beautiful and clear-eyed, her lips half-open as she looked at him, like she was coming down from a high of ecstasy. The look shot right to his groin and somewhere else, he didn't know quite _where_ , but he felt a strong urge to claim her, to possess her, _here, right now, at once._ In that moment, Hermione Granger went from useful prop to something he wanted to _own. This witch was his. He would claim ownership to her, bodily and magically, throwing in her soul for good measure._

Almost breathing heavily, eyes half-lidded with want as he took in her heaving chest and rosy cheeks, he checked himself, saying instead: "Our magical power mingled well. I think this went pretty well."

She nodded – _licking her lips slowly and lasciviously_ – and whispered: "Yes."

Potter and Ginny Weasley applauded heartily, Ginny shouting: "Incredible!"

Ron Weasley, on the other hand, stared hard at him, before sneering at his girlfriend, black jealousy in his eyes, before turning on the spot, marching out, the door slamming shut behind him. The uncomfortable silence was back, and Ginny stared uneasily after her brother. Granger bit her bottom lip, and she half-started up from her seat, but he took her arm, holding her back, saying: "Don't go. Let's play another one."

Staring after Weasley, she sighed. "I suppose it doesn't matter," she said bitterly. "I might as well enjoy myself."

"Right," he almost purred with satisfaction, finding another sheet of four-handed music. "Here's one of Brahms' Hungarian dances. Let's do number one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Schubert's Fantasy in F minor.   
> If you'd like to check it out, follow the link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2Q9HiiRtEc


	6. Strategic Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort kept silent. 
> 
> This was a ‘friend situation’. He had been in such situations before, but this one was difficult, as well as important. He found it hard to find appropriate responses, because really, he had never cared for having a real friend. Often, he'd get by with a bit of discrete Legilimency, but he couldn't afford the risk of doing so on Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Voldemort does his "thing" in this chapter - not-too-graphic torture and murder.
> 
> He's also figuring out how to be a 'friend', lol. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting! <3

Potter requested a lunch meeting the day after the piano incident. The weather was lovely with the promise of spring in the February sun, and Potter had the excellent suggestion to grab sandwiches and Butterbeers and bring them for lunch in Hyde Park. Apparating carefully into the park with Disillusion Charms in place, Potter turned to him as he said: "How come your Apparition has virtually no sound?"

Frowning, he said to Potter: "I have no idea. It's always been like that." _It was true, too, ever since he had started experimenting with it in his fourth year, and it galled him that he wasn't able to understand why._ Continuing, he said: "I've met a few others with soundless Apparition too, so I'm not the only one." _And_ **_that_ ** _galled him even more._

Potter shrugged, saying: "It would be useful as an Auror, though. The criminals wouldn't know what hit them. You're sure you wouldn't want to switch to the Auror Office?"

Involuntarily, he snorted: "Me? In the Auror Office?" _It was an insane idea if he'd ever heard one._ But he backpedalled quickly, adding: "Don't you think people would find it odd if Lord Voldemort's _son_ apprehended them for crimes?" _Not to mention,_ he added to himself, _Lord Voldemort himself,_ almost sniggering by the thought _._

Potter huffed, as they walked towards a bench in a spot of sun. "People will get used to you. After a while, people will forget who your father is, and the attention will be on what you achieve, not because you’re related to him.” 

"I wish," Voldemort said drily. Giving both himself and Potter a critical look, he flicked a Masking spell over their clothing, making them appear like young, Muggle business men: A sharp-looking black suit for himself, and a pinstriped grey for Potter. _After all, he had grown up in the Muggle world. He prided himself on blending in, if he had to. There would be no odd colours or strange styles or fabrics when he went undercover. No matter what he did, he wanted to do it perfectly._

Potter looked bemused at his suit, and shook his head: "Like I said, you would be useful as an Auror."

Voldemort merely arched his eyebrow, and replied: "This is what you need to learn in a lifetime on the run. It doesn't mean I'd be _useful_ as an Auror."

The trees were budding in the park, and a few flowers were peeking up in the flower beds. People were strolling on the paths, and Muggle women were giving the two young wizards flirty glances and smiles in passing. He just couldn't help giving a few of them an appreciative glance, even though they were _Muggles._

Sitting down on a sunlit bench by the fountain, the splashing a relaxing background noise, Voldemort stretched out his long legs in front of him, opening the bottle of Butterbeer by hooking the cap over the side of the wrought-iron bench and slamming his hand down on the cap, before taking a deep swig of the bottle. 

“That’s a very Muggle way of opening a bottle,” Potter said with a grin, doing the same thing. “You lived in Muggle societies much?” 

“I did,” he said with a faint grimace of distaste. “Observing the Statue of Secrecy, you know, sometimes it’s easier to do things this way, though… I don’t really like it.” 

“No, I guess magic is better,” Potter said, chewing on his BLT sandwich. 

“Oh yes,” Voldemort said fervently, unwrapping his cheese sandwich, “magic is infinitely better. Magic is…” he stopped himself, having almost said ‘magic is might’, but he supposed _that_ wouldn’t go down well with Potter. 

Then Potter cleared his throat nervously. "I take it you've noticed the troubles between Hermione and Ron. Especially after that … last story."

"I have," he said, non-committedly, wondering where Potter was going with this.

"They've… well, this isn't easy. They've been off and on for a couple of years now. Frankly, I'd wish they would break up and go back to being friends. Life was so much easier without all this drama. You should have seen last year…" Potter trailed off, eyes unseeing.

 _He knew very well what had happened last year, at least from the papers, but also from his forays into Weasley's mind. To put it simply, the man had been caught red-handed fucking a former school mate, one Lavender Brown, and the ensuing row had blazed a trail in the Daily Prophet for_ **_weeks_**. _To be frank, Voldemort had a hard time comprehending why Granger still would want to be with a man who obviously had cheated on her._

Calmly, he asked: "It bothers you, doesn't it?"

Potter blinked, and said to him: "Yes. It does, really. They're both my best friends, and Ginny is Hermione's friend and Ron's sister, and this is all a fucking mess."

He wanted to grin at Potter's predicament, but managed to wrench his face into an expression of sympathy.

Sighing, Potter rubbed his hands through his hair, messing it up even more. "I'm sorry if this seems intruding, but… I can't help noticing that you and Hermione have hit it off."

He made a sound of protest, making himself ramble: "No, really, it's nothing, that story in the Prophet blew it out of proportions, I mean, I like her, but I know she's with Ron, and…"

Potter shook his head, saying wearily: "I don't mean to pry, really, I just wanted you to know that I hope she sorts everything out with Ron before moving on, as I can't really see them happening anymore."

Voldemort kept silent. _This was a ‘friend situation’. He had been in such situations before, but this one was difficult, as well as important. He found it hard to find appropriate responses, because really, he had never cared for having a real friend. Often, he'd get by with a bit of discrete Legilimency, but he couldn't afford the risk of doing so on Potter. What if Potter recognized the touch of his mind? The wizard in front of him had actually had a part of him inside his soul for seventeen years. He was bound to notice_ **_something._ **

Interpreting his stillness as nervousness, Potter continued: "I think you might be good together, with lots of similar interests and everything. But, I hope this will happen in a way that doesn't make Ron fly off the handle. At least not too much."

The look Potter gave him was tell-tale. _The man was smarter than he seemed_ , Voldemort grudgingly admitted. Slowly, he replied: "I can't deny I find her very intriguing. I promise to be careful, though, and I respect that she's not available. She can set the pace, if she's interested."

He looked down, like admitting this was difficult, but almost let out a whoosh of breath in relief as Potter replied, saying softly: "I think she is. You're right, she _is_ intriguing, and I can't help thinking you like her for all the right reasons. Just don't go breaking her heart, will you?"

Xxxx

"So, you _do_ miss a significant other, Mr. Riddle?" The black-haired, big-busted reporter cooed at him, her baby-blue eyes winking seductively as she leaned forward on the table in her tight, black leather dress. The interview with _Witch Weekly_ was well underway, and he was rather pleased with the questioning. _No wonder, as he was placing the questions directly into the reporter's mind by way of Legilimency._ The interview was held in a back chamber at the Leaky Cauldron, at dinnertime, and he looked forward to a nice meal later.

He gave her pushed-up, half-exposed breasts an appreciative look, making the witch squirm in her seat, red lips halfway open. _She looked good, in a sort of modern way. From what he had learned in his first week in this day and time, he believed the Muggles called this style of dress and make-up ‘goth’," but whatever it was, this witch made it look sexy._

"Yes," he said, "I really do. I want to meet a witch that is intelligent, well read and interested in research and developing her magic." Giving the witch a coy smile, he added: "It doesn't hurt if she looks good, either, you know."

"My, you're a demanding customer, aren't you, Mr. Riddle?" Her bosom was heaving, and he wondered briefly if she would spill out of her dress. "Tell me, do you have an ideal witch?"

"There might be," he said evasively, "but there's no one in my life, sadly."

The witch's eyes widened, sensing an unrequited love story, but he headed off the line of questioning quickly by saying: "My time is almost up. Did you want to do a photoshoot as well?"

"Absolutely," she said, suddenly all business again, and she snapped her fingers at the photographer lounging idly in a chair to the side.

"The lead goes like this," she said, " _Everyone's favourite new star, young Riddle, with his tragic background and immense power. With his looks, witches are swooning all over Britain._ So naturally, we want to do a photoshoot without your shirt on. You might wear your robe, like you’re lounging in your chair half undressed. The idea is to make witches want to climb into your lap."

He blinked. _Shirtless? This was virtually unheard of in the fifties. Suddenly, he felt insecure. Was this something normal, something he was expected to do?_ The thoughts inside the witch's mind gave nothing away, and he suddenly regretted that he hadn't taken the time to read up on magazines like Witch Weekly. Exploring the mind of the witch showed him that the magazine was indeed full of half-naked wizards, but he wasn't quite sure if they were professional models or interviewees.

"Just a moment," he said, feeling an incredible _strange_ flash of panic. "I need to check on something, and I'll be right back within fifteen minutes."

Apparating to 12 Grimmauld Place, he banged on the door. Ginny Weasley opened, a surprised, but pleased look on her face at the sight of him. "Tom! Do come in. Harry and I are just having dinner. Would you like some? There's roast, and…"

"No time," he said, "I just need some help. Advice, actually, and you might be the one who can help me."

"Oh?" she said, looking even more surprised. "please come in."

Stepping into the hall, he saw Potter emerging from the kitchen. _Really,_ he thought, _they insist on eating in the kitchen? Some family they are! The Blacks would be turning in their grave._

"Tom, how nice to…" Harry exclaimed, but he interrupted quickly.

"I find myself in a bit of a predicament," he said, feeling _stupid, humiliated_ and _embarrassed_. Those feelings were almost unknown to him, and he wanted to grit his teeth. "I'm doing an interview with the Witch Weekly, and… is it _normal_ to do a photoshoot with my shirt off?"

Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter stared at him, mouths half open, before they both burst out laughing.

"No," Ginny laughed, helplessly, "no, not if you don't want to. Did they say it was common?"

"Not in so many words," he said, feeling even more belittled and stupid.

"Don't do it," Potter said, tears almost leaking from his eyes, as he clutched his stomach, "just don't."

Ginny grinned widely, shouting " _Accio_ Witch Weekly July 1998."

Potter cringed, saying: "Gin, was that really necessary?"

His fiancée gave off a wicked laugh, saying: "Harry did it, you know, and I think he has regretted it ever since."

Staring at the bare chest of his nemesis on the faded and worn copy, he almost grinned, and Potter's blushing face and obvious embarrassment almost made his mood better. _Almost._

"Thanks," he said, "I have to go back to the interview." 

His anger smoldering, he kept a tight rein on his fury until the blasted photoshoot was done - with his shirt on. Smiling and waving goodbye, he sent them off from the Leaky Cauldron.

The article ended up well enough, and the photos were nice. The photos in the Prophet a week later of the dead body of the witch wasn't all that nice, though.

He savoured them as he drank his morning coffee, thinking about how _good_ it had felt killing the journalist.

_He had Apparated straight into her bedroom at night. She kept shoddy wards, allowing him to easily break in, and she had no Anti-Apparition in place._

_First, he had Confounded her, forcing her to not question why he suddenly was in her home. Though she was, to his surprise, more than pleased to see him in her room, and hadn’t at all minded him fucking her hard on her bed. Her moans and whimpers of pleasure goaded him on, and she twitched almost as much in her orgasm as she did in the next round of several Crucios, and her screams when he told her his real identity had been very satisfying. A quick Deep Scourgify took care of any evidence pointing to him, like semen, hair or skin particles. When finally her eyes rolled back in her head, her glorious black hair grounding into the sheets slick with her own vomit and urine, he casually Imperio'ed her, making her stab herself repeatedly with a knife, bleeding out on the messy bed._

Feeling the coffee rush chase through his body, the exhilaration of pain, torture and death coursed through his mind. _It was so good, it had been far too long since he had killed. It was a shame he couldn’t indulge more often. But trying to trick and humiliate Lord Voldemort was, after all, an inexcusable offence, almost unforgivable,_ _even_. 

Quick steps came toward him in the café, making him stretch his arms over his head in anticipation, making his muscles strain against his shirt. _Granger._ He gave her a slow, seductive smile as she sat down on the other side of the table at the Grounded Bean, and her faint blush made him almost want to purr.

Xxxx

Potter had asked him to grab a beer after work on Friday. "Ginny is going out with Hermione and a couple of other girls, and Ron has left for the Burrow. Would you join me at the Leaky? Grimmauld seems too big when no one's around," Potter said plaintively.

 _Really, he'd much rather stay in his room reading, and he thought Potter and his friends were drinking non-stop compared to what people had been doing in the fifties, but he supposed things had changed while he was gone._ Smiling, he said: "Sure." _Some sacrifices had to be made, and after all, he was supposed to befriend Potter._

As they entered, he said: "Just a moment, I'll just Banish my folder to my room." Sure enough, his work portfolio went flying up the stairs at the entrance, and he turned back to Potter.

"You live here?" Potter said, messing up his hair even more, nervously scratching his scalp.

"So far," he said calmly. "I'm looking for another place to stay, though. Something more permanent."

Potter shot him a quick look, and ventured: "But you do own a house, you know."

"I do?" he said, eyebrows shooting up as they entered the bar, finding seats beside the roaring furnace in the fireplace. Blinking, he cast a Cooling Charm to avoid being roasted. On a second thought, he extended it to Potter, who gave him a grateful smile. The bartender showed up with pints, giving a cordial smile to both him and Potter.

"You do own a house," Potter said decisively. "Your … father … owned a manor up north. In Yorkshire."

He grimaced. _What the fuck? He'd have thought they had torn down that damned manor house by now. There was no way he'd live there. It had to be positively run-down. He felt very sure that his snake-faced self wouldn't have bothered to keep up maintenance._ "I don't think so," he said.

"You do own it," Potter repeated, "I've checked the paperwork."

He stiffened. _Magical paperwork – that was a danger, if there ever was one. It would show his true name to anyone. Luckily, he had chosen to name himself exactly like before. At some point before he left the fifties, he had claimed his official name as Tom Marvolo Voldemort Riddle, and that's what those documents would show. At least, he sincerely hoped so._

Frowning, he said quietly: "It doesn't mean I want to live _there."_

Potter snorted, saying: "I can see that. Still, I'll take you there tomorrow, you can see for yourself. Is that a deal?"

He nodded, drinking deeply, and noted with appreciation that the witch at the next table seemed to be intrigued by his foam-moustache. _At least, she eyed him while licking her upper lip lasciviously. He'd love to take her for a rough shag, but the Leaky Cauldron was too busy. Too much of a risk for anyone to notice him disappearing with a witch. Besides, she would only be a substitute, like the rest. These days, all his fantasies were of Granger._

Xxxx

He had to suffer the indignity of Side-Along Apparition with Potter, as he supposedly had no idea where Riddle Manor was situated. Luckily, Potter's Apparition was acceptable, and as they emerged outside the iron gate, he was relieved to discover he had all his limbs.

"Don't worry," Potter said as they entered, "the Aurors have taken down all the wards, and combed through the house. There are no traces of malignant magic left, though there were rather a lot to begin with."

He nodded, but still, he felt his wards give him a faint whisper of welcome as they passed the gate. _Not everything was gone, then. The Aurors obviously needed to read up on wardings,_ he thought with a small sneer.

The house looked positively awful. Parts of the roof seemed to have collapsed, and the eastern wing was in ruins, where a great part of the wall had caved in.

Shaking his head, he stopped outside the front door. "I can't live here. This isn’t a house, it’s a ruin."

"I agree," Potter said, "but still, it's yours. You have the right to see it."

He sighed, and they entered. The house was totally derelict and run down, and skeletons of little animals littered the halls, crunching underneath their feet. _Food for his snake,_ he supposed. _Still, allowing the snake to spread the remains of its meals around was quite another matter. His snake-faced self had truly been mad, letting himself live in such a place, like he had no standards at all._

Potter said: "They even found a very small basilisk, you know. One Auror died before they contained it."

Disgusted, he spat: "I can't believe how fucking stupid he was! Raising a basilisk here, with no walls to keep it in?" _Really, had he been that deranged?_

Potter said, a curious look on his face: "You really despise him, don't you?"

Stiffening, he glared at Potter, making the man almost take a step back. Making an effort to reign himself in, he responded drily: "I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that I was proud of his actions."

"No," Potter said, looking abashed, "I didn't mean it quite like that. I mean, in a way it's natural to care _somewhat_ for one's parents. Your parentage, of course, is a special case."

Shrugging, like this was not such a big deal, he replied: “The things that he did…” 

Potter winced, saying in a low growl: “I _know_.” 

Inspiration struck, and on the spot he decided to confide in Potter about Delphini. _It could be seen as a token of friendship to share secrets, couldn't it? And Potter would know soon enough about his ‘sister’._

Potter's response was one of appropriate shock, stammering: "I .. I … I … can't … believe it. How many children did the man have? Has he peppered Britain and Europe with his offspring?"

Voldemort said with a heartfelt sigh: "I sincerely hope this is it. I don't exactly fancy having … _brothers and sisters_ … all over the world."

Then Harry frowned, saying: "And the damned Malfoys! Those fucking bastards, keeping this a secret! How many other secrets have they kept from the Ministry?"

 _Probably as many as they thought they'd get away with,_ Voldemort rather thought, _though it was beyond him how they could hope to keep the existence of a child a secret for much longer._

Out loud, he said: "I'm more worried about what her parentage means. That woman, her _mother_ , she seemed to be utterly crazy after what I've read."

"You can say that again," Harry snorted, worry fluttering briefly over his face. "You're going to take her in, right?" His green eyes looked earnestly at him, like there was only one, possible _moral_ choice for Voldemort to take.

Nodding, he said slowly: "I need to get my life sorted a little more, but yes, I will, eventually. Like," he looked around in the derelict room, "getting a decent place to live. Fix child care, and things like that. And none of that is going to happen here, in this dump."

Potter continued, seemingly still bothered by the Malfoys secrecy, saying with frown: "Gods, Draco Malfoy is her _cousin_! Poor girl."

He rolled his eyes at that, finding his child's family a disturbing thing indeed. But then Potter said: "You should come and live with Ginny and me at Grimmauld. It's big enough for a score of people. And we would love to have a kid there."

Xxxx

Leaning back in his office chair, he reflected on his late lunch with Andromeda Tonks, Wizengamot member and leader of Shacklebolt’s faction. The old witch had been surprisingly open, probably due to Shacklebolt singing his praises, and she had told him lots of relevant and interesting facts about the dealings in the Wizengamot. _More than she believed too, as he had lifted several secrets right out of her head. It was fascinating, and he decided to work on his network in the Wizengamot for real. He would need political support, sooner rather than later._

His door opened with a small bang, and he looked up in surprise. 

"Sorry if I interrupt you," Granger said, standing in his office. Looking at her, he saw her eyes were red-rimmed and her face blotched. She was sniffling slightly, and he looked at her with evident surprise. _Why was she crying?_ Then it hit him, somewhere in his chest, _no one should make his witch cry. No one but him, of course._

He flicked his door shut to his office, and rose. "Come here," he said gruffly, and she willingly went into his arms, resting her cheek against his sternum. _She was so tiny,_ he noted, _that her head barely reached his chest._ He felt a jolt of desire in discovering that her tits were almost at the same height of his cock. _Rapidly, his mind began to fill with images of her squeezing those luscious breasts together, as he fucked her tits…_ Forcing himself to remain still, he stroked her back soothingly, letting her tears wet his robes.

As her crying continued, he decided that he'd be better off with her in his lap. This was a good opportunity for kissing, but not if he got a chink in his neck. If he wanted to kiss her while standing, he'd have to crouch to get to her. Scooping her up in his arms, she gave off a surprised yelp, before huddling into him again, as he sat down in his chair.

Stroking her hair, petting her back, comforting her, he calculated his chances of getting farther with her. Most assuredly, she had had a fight with Weasley. And, she came to _him_ for comfort. _Yes, kissing was a sure thing. He just had to handle it the right way._

Lifting her chin with two fingers, cupping her jaw gently, he gave her a smile he hoped registered as tender. "What happened, Hermione? Did someone hurt you?"

She shook her head, tears pooling, and croaked out: "Ron…" Pulling her to him again, crushing her against his chest, he broke off before long, saying: "You can tell me, you know."

Sniffling, she said: "I've tried to mend this so many times, but…"

He looked deeply into her eyes, and she flushed a little. The silence became oppressive, almost overwhelming, and as he inched his mouth towards hers, she didn't pull away. He crashed down on her, their mouths meeting in a fevered kiss, lips opening, letting their tongues meet, dance, explore, entwine, and he felt little starbursts of pleasure through his skull. _This, oh, this was so good. If kissing was like this, what would fucking her be like?_

Reluctantly, he broke off, playing the gentleman. "I'm so sorry, this was wrong," he gasped, letting her see his desire and unwillingness to stop.

She touched her bruised lip softly, before shaking her head: "Don't think about it, this was good, and I want to..."

"No," he said decisively, "I can't interfere with something, you're involved, and I, I can't, no matter what I want, but… it's not right."

She looked dazed, almost impressed, and a little flattered. _She'd be back. Oh yes, she'd be back for more before long._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, a kiss! *grins*


	7. Cementing a Reputation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something clicked in his brain, and the knowledge of Weasley being Granger's only known serious relationship and the man's very public spat of infidelity suddenly added up. 
> 
> Yes, she was insecure about her looks and her worth in a relationship, and Voldemort had underestimated Weasley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sending kudos, reading and commenting! <3

The bushy-haired little witch was brave, though, seeking him out the next day to talk in their usual coffee haunt. She had dressed very nicely, Voldemort noted, in grey, silky robes, and with a tight black button-down shirt hugging her curves, black slacks showing off her hips and arse, though he did his best not to leer at her. 

Sitting down, lids lowered demurely, eyes fixed on her coffee, he could see she clutched the mug much too hard, her knuckles going white.

"I .. I don't know what came over me," she said softly. "I hope you didn't find me too intrusive. I apologize for what happened."

He almost barked a laugh. _Did the Golden Girl go about berating herself for_ **_him_ ** _kissing_ **_her_** _? That was a good one._ A quick gauge of her thoughts told him it was the honest truth. _She actually thought she had pushed herself on him, thanks to him rejecting her yesterday._

He downed his espresso quickly, feeling the flare of the caffeine high burn through him, before leaning forward, taking her hand. "Hermione," he said as warmly as he managed, letting his desire for her play in his eyes. "You are … everything ... a man could wish for. Intelligent, brave, beautiful…" With a small tug at the corners of his mouth, he took in the fierce blush travelling over her face and throat. "Don't think for a moment I didn't enjoy it, because I did. The fact remains, you have Ron. I won't come between the two of you. Go back to him, try to make it work, or dump him once and for all. Sneaking around with borderline adultery is not the way to go about this. You need to take care of your relationship first."

_Merlin, he was impressed with himself. He sounded almost noble, wise and kind. This was a good performance, worthy of a hero. Granger was as good as his, he was sure. He had pressed all the right buttons._

And right on cue, she raised her tearful face to him, and hiccupped: "You are right, of course you are. I should do this the right way, I'm sorry for bothering you like this. It's just, I've been trying for so long, and… well, it hasn't been working out. Anyways, you're right. I need to do this the right way, or Ron will hate me. I should give him one more chance."

He nodded at her, still stroking her soft hands, relishing the tingle in his finger and palm by the touch of her smooth skin. Inside, he was grinning, and the thought at the forefront of his mind was: _I'll make Ron Weasley fail so spectacularly_.

Xxxx

The elder Malfoy met up with him to visit Delphini again. It was his third visit, and he was shocked as the brat came running on her stubby legs towards him, yelling "Tom, Tom!"

Squealing, she threw herself at him, and he lifted her effortlessly up in the air, and then, preposterously, the little child _hugged_ him, burrowing her little, none-to-clean face into his neck. "Tom, I love you!" the little girl cried jubilantly. "Do you have another spell for me?"

He felt surprised and nearly queasy by the display of affection, but he patted the girl's back with an effort, putting her down rather quickly. _A hug, from his own daughter, and an expression of tender feelings. He should be happy, but all he wondered was if she had smeared snot on his black shirt. Merlin, when did children learn to stay clean? It couldn't be soon enough, as far as he was concerned._

"A spell," he said, making his voice light and friendly, pushing his disgust down, hiding it, "now that you're mentioning it, I would like to teach you how to make a light. It goes like this, say it after me: _Lumos!"_

Xxxx

Granger was unusually quiet the next day at the Grounded Bean, seemingly distracted. She was pretty today too, he noted, a tight, black turtleneck sweater and an equally tight black skirt, both showing off her curves to their advantage underneath shimmery, soft blue robes. It was cold outside, and the windows by his favourite table were a little fogged by the steam emitting from the barista’s wand-waving as he produced coffee and espresso for the customers.

"Out with it," he said to her, giving her a wry smile.

She bit her lip, and he felt a jolt of desire going down his spine. _He wanted to bite those lips, crushing her to him…_

"I saw you, yesterday, with Lucius Malfoy," she finally blurted out. "I didn't know you were friends."

Cocking his head at her, it was easy to see, she was uneasy. _She had no love for the Malfoys, that was clear as the day._ Out loud, he said: "Harry haven't told you?"

Her brow furrowing, she said slowly: "No…?"

His eyebrows shot to his hairline. _Did Potter keep his secret, not telling his best friends? That was so very … Gryffindoresque of him._

"There's a very good reason for me to meet him. You see, almost no one knows what I'm about to tell you. Harry does," he hastened to reassure her, as she looked sceptic.

"I have a small sister. Someone the Malfoys know takes care of her. Mr. Malfoy is setting up my visits."

Her mouth opened into a delectable round "O", making him want to kiss her, to shove his tongue into her mouth, nip at her lips, but he continued to tell her the story of Delphini. 

When he was done, he added, mostly on a whim: "Would you like to meet her?" _If he was entertaining the thought of marrying the chit and having her take care of Delphini, they would have to meet, sooner rather than later._

Hermione replied immediately: "I have no idea what to do with a kid."

He laughed at the quick, from-the-heart response. "Me neither," he croaked out.

She smiled at him, looking amused, asking: "What do you do when you visit?"

"I've taught her some Charms."

Hermione looked surprised, saying: "Is that normal for such a young child?"

He answered: "I have no idea. I didn't have exactly a normal childhood." _And it's the honest truth, too. Those years at the orphanage… It had been brutal. Even he knew that, though by the age of five, he was one of the predators._

She smiled softly, saying: "I can see that. If you'd like to, I can accompany you next time."

Xxxx

"This is a very delicate process," his best researcher, Joanna Selwyn, said with a worried frown at their morning meeting. "St. Mungo's has been very restrictive in letting us do research."

"I know," he said reassuringly, "but I do have an idea on how to approach this, and I've secured cooperation from St. Mungo's Head Healer." _At least, after a nice round of Imperius and a few well-placed Obliviates, the Head Healer had become cooperative, though she had balked at the idea initially._

The team looked expectantly at him, and he said: "As you know, the connections between their sense of themselves, their identity, and their conscious mind broke down because of the extreme duress they were under. I propose to magically rebuild the connections by Transfiguring the destroyed tissue into magical conduits, able to relay and fire like ordinary synapses in the brain."

Several of the others nodded slowly, but Selwyn's eyes popped, and she whispered: "It's mad, Transfiguring inside the brain where you can't have a visual of what you do… But if it works, it's nothing short of brilliant. If we pull off this, then the entire Janus Thickey Ward can be released in a few months."

He nodded, a small smile playing at his lips. _Seeing as this was a smart PR move, designed to build his reputation, he wanted to follow through with this case, to gain more recognition, building his reputation firmly as an outstanding citizen. That's why he'd rebuild the brains of the Longbottoms himself, going for the high-profile case. And then, the headlines, the hero worship, the perfect position to take over the entire Department when his boss fell inexplicably ill. After that, the scandals he'd set in motion in the other departments, the downfall of Kingsley, and then… Oh, then…_

"When do we start?" a small wizard said, voice almost trembling in excitement, disturbing his reverie.

He gave his employees a wide smile, and said: "Today, but we need to practise. Bring out the creatures for testing."

Xxxx

"Aaah, my round?" Weasley said, brushing the back of his hand over his foam moustache. He was out, drinking _again_ , with Potter and Weasley. The last one had been scowling at him, but with some discrete mind nudges towards amiability and a little help from the mellow atmosphere caused by several rounds of beer, the slouching red-head was quite pleased for the moment. After four rounds, he felt pleasantly relaxed and slightly sloshed himself. 

The Leaky Cauldron was filled to the brim with witches and wizards, the stench of spilled beer everywhere this late in the evening, and drunk people hollering to each other, someone singing raucously in a corner. 

"Where's Ginny?" he asked Potter as Weasley staggered to the counter.

Potter flushed slightly, saying: "She has a match tomorrow, and needs to rest."

Staring at Potter, he wondered why the man blushed. Then it hit him: _The Weasleys were famous for their ability to breed. The young beauty was of course pregnant, though they clearly weren't ready to tell the world yet._

Smirking, he nodded. "Of course, such a good girl. Wouldn't want to mess up for the team, would she?"

Potter blushed even more fiercely. "No," he muttered, "she wouldn't dream of it."

Voldemort grinned. _Clearly, this was an issue too. Getting pregnant some six months after signing with her Quidditch team was sure to be noticed. Oh well, he couldn't care less if the female Weasley had some awkward conversations with her teammates ahead of her._

Ron Weasley came slouching back, pints Levitated and trailing behind him, spilling over due to his sloppy spell work lacking proper stabilization. Voldemort furrowed his brow. _One thing was spilling beer everywhere on the floor, but he absolutely abhorred bad spell work. Weasley had it coming for being so careless, if not for a multitude of other reasons._

"So," Potter said, eyes a little too bright under the influence of the alcohol. "We had this interesting case of dark magic today, bordering on your line of work." He nodded at Voldemort.

"How so?" he said, his interest piqued, even through the foggy haze in his mind. He eyed the new pint on the table, knowing that he should stop, _now_ . But it tasted so good, and he was actually enjoying himself, and through a series of steps in his mind that he just _knew_ he would regret, he indulged his mood, taking a sip.

Potter continued: "There was a young girl, not more than sixteen, who cursed her ex-boyfriend with a rather nasty mind-altering spell."

Weasley was shaking his head, muttering: "Awful, really, a young girl doing something like that. One wouldn't think a _girl_ behind something like that."

His eyebrows rose, and he asked: "What did this spell make him do?"

"The thing was," Potter continued, "her ex had humiliated her in front of her whole class at Hogwarts when breaking up, telling her she wasn't good-looking enough for him. She cursed him two weeks later, using a very specialized version of the _Criminalis_ , actually the _Criminalis Sexus."_

"Merlin's balls," he breathed, almost reverently. "What did he do, what happened?"

"If you're familiar with the spell, then, as you can imagine, he raped the first witch he could find. She was a classmate, and … it was bad. Really bad. The victim is currently in St. Mungo's, going through some serious Healing."

"How did this slip of a girl discover a curse like that?" Voldemort was frankly amazed, as this spell really was on the darker side of the spectrum. _Pitch black, as it was._

"That's what we'd like to know too," Potter said with a worried frown. "This isn't a widely known curse, thank Merlin, and the curse was only discovered because the school matron, Madam Pomfrey, had seen it before and recognized the signs."

He huffed in disbelief. "She saw the yellow striped vein in his left eye and knew _that_ for what it was?"

Weasley's eyes shot up from his beer, and he said, voice suddenly not so slurred and eyes clearer than before: "How do _you_ know about that? This is a fucking _obscure_ curse."

Shrugging, he said, hiding his irritation: "I know a lot of dark magic, as we thought it necessary while on the run. Needless to say, I'm not really a practitioner." He kept his glare in check, but vowed to stop underestimating Weasley. _The whelp was smarter than he looked_ , he admitted grudgingly. _Had they both set a trap to catch him? He didn't think so, from what he had read in Weasley's mind, but still…_

"Not really?" Weasley said, scepticism dripping from his voice. "Does that mean you _do_ practise dark magic, just sometimes, not regularly?"

"I have done so, to learn it all. It doesn't mean using it, though. This curse was taught to us by an old witch in Teheran," he explained, mixing the truth seamlessly with lies. _Actually, it was part true. He had learned it in Teheran in the fifties, but he supposed he was the one teaching it to other Brits._

Weasley snorted, but Potter said slowly: "As long as you're not using dark magic."

He drained his fifth pint, responding clippedly: "As long as you stay in control, knowledge isn't necessarily a bad thing. You know, lots of wizards and witches have quite the extensive knowledge without turning bad."

"Like who?" Weasley demanded, eyes staring hard at him.

"Like … Albus Dumbledore," he said, grasping for someone he knew they respected.

Potter said: "Even he had trouble in his youth, when he was using dark magic with Grindelwald."

He nodded, saying: "I know. Grindelwald was adamant Dumbledore was a dark wizard, but I'd say from what he did later, he managed to rein himself in to be in control."

Too late, he became aware that the two wizards goggled at him, green and blue eyes filled with disbelief. "You knew _Grindelwald_?" Potter said weakly.

_Morgana's tits! He shouldn't have revealed that. Gods, he had to stop drinking! He was letting himself become careless, very careless._

He had met Grindelwald several times in the early fifties, due to the lax security allowing him to fly into his prison, staying there for hours on end. Grindelwald had been all too happy to talk to the handsome, brilliant young wizard, sharing knowledge and magical exploits. _Voldemort strongly suspected, his visits had become wank material for the man afterwards, though Grindelwald had never tried to make a move_. _But_ **_that_ ** _story wouldn't do._

"At one point, my mother and I went undercover in Germany, posing as Grindelwald's guards for a living. He was fond of telling stories and sharing his magical knowledge," he said, putting an effort into sounding earnest.

Potter shook his head, and barked a laugh. "Gods, what life you must have led. Seeing all those countries, meeting Grindelwald and all sorts of wizarding people, being chased… I'm surprised you even seem normal!"

At that, he gave Potter a big grin, his eyes filling with real laughter. "I wouldn't say that, but I'm _trying_ ," he said, for once being entirely truthful, and Potter laughed too. Even Weasley put up a reluctant grin. _Yes, he was back on track. They thought him to be fucking_ **_likable_** _, that's what he was! But he had to do a Sobering spell as soon as possible, because any more slips was just not feasible._

Potter drained his beer too, and said: "Well, as for the case, do you have any ideas? The girl in question isn't yet of age, so her only punishment is likely to be expelled and to pay a compensation claim for the poor girl who fell victim to the rape."

"I could have a look at her mind, if you're interested, to see what she's like," he said slowly. "That could give you some information if this was an accident, or if she'd be dangerous when she's older."

"Great," Potter said, nodding.

"If I may ask, who is she?" _He was dead curious, wondering if she belonged to a family of Death Eaters._

"Josephine Macnair, and she claims her father, who of course is in Azkaban, taught her the spell," Weasley said.

_Right in the bull's eye, a Death Eater family. He was looking forward to checking up on her, seeing if this was the kind of girl he could utilize later. With an obvious lack of morality like that, she could do almost anything. He would, at some point, need a ruthless enforcer._

"Next round is on me," he said, rising, almost stumbling as he walked towards the bar. Throwing a glance towards the two wizards, he discreetly, wordlessly and wandlessly cast a Sobering spell on himself, feeling the pleasant fogginess in his mind trickle off him like drops of rain. _Gods, how could he allow himself to get drunk in the company of his mortal enemies? He was fucking stupid and insane, no better than his snake-faced self!_

Angry and furious at himself, but still a little pleased for having wormed his way out of his own stupid mistakes, he waited for the bartender to draw the pints. A witch in very high heels sidled up to him, putting a small hand on his arm.

Looking up at him with eyes like deep, dark, sultry pools, she licked her red lips, pouting at him. _She was definitely good looking, with large tits, a narrow waist and long, black hair. Her delicious body was squeezed into a tight, long dress that seemed to be made of latex, of all things. No matter how odd her clothing, she was very much fuckable._

Voldemort debated with himself if he should indulge or not, but then she opened her stupid mouth, saying: "Please, my Lord, will you use me like a Death Eater whore, please?"

Shock and irritation coursed through him in waves. _Stupid bint! He was not about to blow his cover on something like this, no matter how delectable she looked._

Clearing his throat, as he grabbed the pints from the bartender, he said: "I don't think you'd care for the experience. To my knowledge, after what I've _read_ , most of them didn't survive the night."

She huffed, and he turned away from her, walking briskly towards their seats, still scowling.

To his surprise, Granger had arrived too. He was pleased to see the distance between her and Weasley. Potter sat in the middle, looking uncomfortable as hell. Oddly enough, Granger hadn't dressed up today. She wore a big, lumpy, red sweater and Muggle jeans, hiding her luscious body from his view. _Like she tried to hide her body from someone’s gaze._

Putting down the pints, he nodded at her, saying: "Can I get you anything?"

"No," she said with a nervous smile, "I ordered at the bar before coming over. They'll bring my Margarita when it's ready." 

“Ok,” he shrugged, wondering why she had shown up on what Potter and Weasley had described as a “boys’ night out.” Seeing her looking at Weasley, he suddenly realized she might be checking up on her boyfriend, wondering if he was taking the opportunity to cheat on her again. 

From Weasley’s disgruntled look at his girlfriend, Voldemort suspected Granger might have been right. _Maybe Weasley actually would try to hook up with other girls._

The man in question craned his neck to see the girl at the bar, asking with curiosity: "What did that girl in the black dress want, Tom? She looked good! Strike that, she was absolutely smoking!"

"Nothing, really," he answered, irritation breaking through, and he glowered down into his pint. 

"No, come on, you look so angry," Weasley said, "though, she was _quite_ attractive."

That was clearly a jab at Granger, who glared at Weasley's smug, triumphant smile, plastered on his red face, blue eyes almost glazed with drink. 

"No, seriously, it's both stupid and embarrassing," he murmured, watching Weasley closely. _Was this an opportunity to drive the wedge between Granger and Weasley even deeper, with his apparently cruel comments on how other witches looked? But whatever for? Granger was pretty enough to compete with the lot of them, unless she was insecure…_

Something clicked in his brain, and the knowledge of Weasley being Granger's only known serious relationship and the man's very public spat of infidelity suddenly added up. _Yes, she was insecure about her looks and her worth in a relationship, and he had underestimated Weasley. This_ **_was_ ** _cruel, oh so cruel, though in a small-minded, everyday way indeed: Trying to hold down a beautiful, brilliant witch like her with snide comments of her not being good enough, just because Weasley was simply afraid his girl would leave him. The man was, however, right to fear he wasn't wizard enough for his witch._

Voldemort felt his eyes narrow, glancing maliciously at Weasley. _To utilize such insecurities - oh, Weasley was a veritable treasure trove._

"Come on," Weasley repeated, "what could such a pretty slip say to piss you off like that?"

Muttering, like he was embarrassed, he said: "She wanted me to use her, and I quote, like 'a Death Eater whore', and she addressed me as 'my Lord'."

Weasley laughed out loud in disbelief, while Potter and Granger winced, throwing him sympathetic looks.

"Gods, you could have done _anything_ with her," Weasley said, "and she wouldn't have complained, ever."

Granger stared stonily at Weasley, and his inner self whooped. _This was also a sore spot, he could tell._ Entering Granger’s mind effeortlessly, he saw countless quarrels about sex, where Weasley had tried to push her into doing things she didn’t want to, and her refusing him - or even worse - weeping softly afterwards, regretting that she had gone along with things she didn’t want. 

Feeling a sudden, inexplicable burst of anger, he forced himself to keep his expression on a tight rein, replying: "I wouldn't dream of it. That," he said, nodding towards the bar, "is so very far from what I want." 

Voldemort let his eyes meet Granger's, giving her a deep, searching look, and he was rewarded by a blush and shining eyes, and the soft nudge of her foot underneath the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a bit of expansion into Hermione and Ron's relationship, making it (even more) unhealthy.


	8. Collecting Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost swearing under his breath, he realized that he had projected his fantasy at her, unconsciously so. She had been a bystander to his fantasy, and now, she was affected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you looking for smut? We're almost there... ;-)

Potter and his girlfriend dragged him out to lunch on a fine spring morning in the middle of February. The café was disgustingly done up with hearts, fluttering doves and little cherubs, and he realized that Valentine's Day had gone through some radical changes since the fifties. _And none the better_ , he thought sourly. _There had been letters and some gave gifts, but this? A whole day devoted to sickening, smothering lovey-dovey bullshit, all painted in sickly pink?_

Sitting down, Potter fidgeted nervously on his chair, until Ginny Weasley snorted, taking the matter in her own hands.

"Tom," she said warmly, clasping his hand entirely unbidden. He stared down at their joined hands, forcing himself to accept the fact that the witch touched _him, Lord Voldemort_ , without his express permission.

"We would really like you to come and live with us at Grimmauld Place, like Harry said earlier. The house is huge, and we know you rent a room at the Leaky Cauldron. You can rent the entire top floor with us for a half the price, if you'd like. It's a shame, you having to live in a tavern for months."

Potter nodded mutely, signalling his agreement. The waiter, a young wizard dressed in shockingly pink robes, interrupted them, thrilling about love day and how all witches got their very own, special love cake: "Wouldn't young Miss have a piece of our pink chocolate cake? It's supposed to bring luck, though Miss seemed to be very lucky indeed today?" The waiter winked outrageously at Ginny Weasley, waggling his eyebrows as he waited for her reply.

Leaning back, he pursed his lips, as he grabbed his sandwich, stuffing his mouth to avoid sneering at the waiter. To her credit, young Weasley looked exasperated, but she accepted the pink, glazed, heart-shaped cake, though with very little grace. Potter was almost falling off his chair with silent laughter, and then he lunged forward with a mischievous grin, attempting to spoon-feed Weasley with cake. Her resulting glare made even Voldemort chuckle.

 _Live with Potter and his girlfriend… It would do miracles for his reputation, really showing the public that he was one of the good guys._ On the other hand, he'd have to restrain himself from doing certain things at home, restricting his private practising rounds, hiding half of his newly acquired dark library as well as staying in character as "good Tom" all the time. Still, the benefits would far outweigh the disadvantages. _He could do this_.

He nodded, giving them a pleased grin. "You know, I might take you up on the offer. Actually, I'd love to, if it isn't too much of a bother."

"Absolutely not," they chorused, Weasley with pink glaze smeared across her chin after Potter's attacks with the spoon.

Then it struck him. "What about Ron? He, at least, stays at Grimmauld. Is he ok with a new flatmate?"

Weasley responded: "Ron keeps a room on the second floor, but he spends a lot of time at the Burrow, with our parents. As you know, Hermione stays in her own flat for the most part."

And so it happened: It was agreed that Lord Voldemort would move in as flatmate with Harry Potter and his girlfriend. _Essentially, that's what he always did, living off other people. And what else than a lovely coincidence was this, having his mortal enemy provide housing for him?_

Xxxx

In the management meeting, right in front of everyone's noses, he calmly, wordlessly and wandlessly cursed Department Head Saul Croaker. The curse was an insidious one, lodging itself into the very cells of the man’s lungs, starting a route of destruction that would lead to a severe and debilitating illness within weeks. The only thing anyone could have noticed in the meeting, was a slight cough from Croaker as the curse settled, and a small smile at the corners of Voldemort's mouth.

Xxxx

"Hello, Mr. Longbottom, how nice to see you," he said with a smile, holding out his hand. The visitor's room at the St. Mungo's was bright and airy, painted in yellow and green colours. The tall young man shaking his hand looked nervous and apprehensive, eyes flitting around like he didn't dare to look Voldemort in the eyes.

"Hello, this is very… exciting," Longbottom said, wringing his hands slightly.

"You came all the way from Hogwarts, I understand?" Voldemort asked politely, wondering idly why someone like this young nervous fellow was accepted at Hogwarts, when he had been rejected himself.

"Yes, well, I am finishing an Apprenticeship in Herbology," the young man replied, "but my Gran still lives just outside London. She'd be here too, if she hadn't got a bad case of _Tarantula Fingeris_. Not to be taken lightly at her age, though."

"Most certainly, I do hope she gets appropriate treatment?" _Gods, he hated small talk, but unfortunately, it was necessary. Talking to little wimps like this wizard…_

Longbottom snorted, saying: "She treats herself. Doesn't trust anyone to brew for her."

"Oh." He wasn't exactly surprised, because he _remembered_ Augusta Macmillan, though not as a Longbottom. That harpy was two years younger than him, and she had been one of the more acidic and cantankerous Gryffindors he'd ever encountered. _No wonder she'd grown paranoid in her old age._

He continued, steering the conversation back on track: "Well, as you've read in my letter, we would like to ask your approval to do an experimental treatment on your parents, Mr. Longbottom."

Longbottom swallowed, sitting down in a chair, fidgeting with his cuffs. _Which, by the way, were smeared with dirt_ , Voldemort noted with distaste. _Didn’t the man know how to keep himself clean?_

Then Longbootm said with a quiet, surprising dignity, locking his blue eyes on Voldemort's face: "If you can do anything at all, that's all I can ask. They have been lost so long, with no one offering any solution, that I'm willing to let you try. In a way, it's almost like a stroke of fate that you are the one who might save them, the son of their ultimate destroyer. And I've heard about you from Harry and Hermione. They trust you, and I trust them. Please, do your best."

Voldemort felt a smile spread on his face, pleased to get approval so easily without having to resort to cursing, because there was always a risk of being found out. One thing was clear, though: _Longbottom was a pushover_. _Still, how he wanted Longbottom to hold that speech for the Prophet when he had succeeded!_

Xxxx

"We're ready to test a couple of theories on the House-elves," he informed Granger at their daily meeting at their coffee haunt. The place had been redecorated overnight, and he found the new art deco theme quite aesthetically pleasing. Green, black and white tiles on the floor in a sinuous pattern, black, elegant chairs and small tables, beautiful globes of light hanging low from the ceiling, giving off a soft, warm light, and large, green fronds stood tall in the corners. _Beautiful, and now a fitting place for him and his witch. Much better than the odd, modern Muggle style the owners had tried to imitate before. In fact, the owners had taken his "suggestion" of redecorating rather well, the Viking barista very eager to get to work under the Imperius._

She bit her lip, looking dejectedly down. "I have only bound elves as of yet," she said. "I need to go to Hogwarts to ask for the one, free elf that lives there."

"Hogwarts…" he mused. "When will you be able to go there? After what I've heard, it's not common for the school to allow visitors during the school year."

"Ah, well," she said slowly, "not normally, no. Do you remember Ginny telling you about the Chamber of Secrets? She took the liberty to write the Headmistress about your offer for reopening, and she … sort of accepted. I was hoping I could accompany you."

He stared at her in surprise. "Into the Chamber?" _Whatever for? It wasn't as if any of them knew anything else about the chamber, except for it being a big, ornamented room. No one knew about the hidden library, at least, and if he had anything to say, no one would know either. The danger of letting nosy students down there was, of course, more than a bit risky, but having a clever, curious Granger sniffing about was even worse._

"No, of course not," she laughed, cheeks pinking. "To Hogwarts! If I go with you, I have a legitimate reason for visiting."

"Did you enjoy your years at Hogwarts?" he asked, suddenly realizing that her answer would mean something to him.

"Yes," she said dreamily, "I loved it. It was like coming home. The library… I practically lived there. I still dream of it, even after all the horrible things that happened at Hogwarts during the battle."

"The library wasn't damaged in any way, was it?" he said sharply, suddenly dreading that his insane, inferior snake-self had destroyed one of the places he really, really cared for in this world. Funny though, that Granger seemed to care as much for the library too. _In fact, he felt that Granger had given the one and only correct answer._

"No, strangely enough, it wasn't even touched by the battle. I think it was practically unharmed," Granger said with a smile.

"I'd love to go there with you," he said, letting out a big breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "I'd like to see this place, and to see if I can help the Headmistress in any way that I can with this Chamber."

Xxxx

At breakfast one morning, Potter asked him: "Do you like duelling?"

He nodded non-committedly, chewing his toast, while clutching his mug of strong, black tea. He was by no means a morning person. Breakfast with other people was not something he enjoyed, and he had _hated_ it with a passion during his school years. Vowing silently to start having breakfast at the Grounded Bean again, no matter his living arrangements, he forced himself to respond vocally too. "Yes, but I don't really have the time for it, though."

"Why don't you take a turn with the Aurors? We have open practise for any Ministry employees every Tuesday at lunchtime. It's great fun."

He snorted. "I'm sure it is fun for the Aurors, hexing people left and right, because an ordinary Ministry official could never compete with professionals."

"That too," Potter conceded with a smile, before saying: "But you're not an ordinary employee. People are curious, wanting to know what you'd be like in a fight, since you're so accomplished in magic and everything. You might have some tricks up your sleeves that'll be useful for us."

"I'm sure they are curious," he said, laughing silently, thinking about the crowds that would flock to watch Lord Voldemort's son duelling. _Though, they'd run screaming if they knew it was Lord Voldemort himself. But he really enjoyed duelling. No, strike that, he loved winning, but he could also probably use the practise. It had been a long time._ His mind spun, and he quickly assessed the risk of Potter recognizing his duelling style versus the opportunity to duel. _Maybe he could hide his style by duelling wandless?_ He grimaced. _Maybe he even had to lose a few times to not make people suspicious._

"It could be fun," he ventured carefully.

"Yes, it will be! I'm so looking forward to dueling you," Potter said with excitement shining in his green eyes.

Voldemort shook his head, and said: "On one condition, though, I can't duel you, Ron or Hermione. That won't do, it'll make for headlines and whatnot. It'll be a total mess." _And who knew? Maybe the fates would have something odd in store for him duelling Potter. All sorts of strange things had happened to his snake-faced self while duelling Potter, hadn't it?_

Potter's face fell, and he nodded reluctantly. "That's sensible, I can see that. We should avoid that for the time being, though it would have been so much fun."

Xxxx

He was a bit apprehensive about visiting the Burrow, but Ginny Weasley was insistent, dragging him along to a Sunday dinner. "Now that you've moved in, you'll be a part of our Sunday Squad," she said in a take-no-prisoner-tone. Later, he found out that she took after her mother. _A lot_. Molly Weasley would prove to be one of the bossiest witches he had ever met.

Tagging along with them, he tried to swallow the feeling of indignity of having to again Side-along with Potter, as he hadn't the faintest clue of where this _Burrow_ was located.

They entered a bustling kitchen full of people, and then there was hugging, yelling, handshakes and introductions for a good long while. He met several male adults, a couple of toddlers, girlfriends and wives, and the Weasley Mater and Pater familias. All had welcoming smiles and curious glances when they thought he wasn't looking, but he was used to that by now. _In fact, he enjoyed it, while silently berating himself for being such an attention seeker. It wasn't a strategically sound trait, he was very much aware of that fact._ Then, another Weasley entered. From his age, Voldemort supposed he was the surviving twin, George.

Suddenly, his skin prickled in warning. _Was this Weasley a threat?_

The young man in question said clearly, after giving him a look full of hatred: "Some people just shouldn't be allowed to procreate."

Ginny Weasley sucked in her breath, and Potter got that pinched, worried frown on his face. Molly Weasley glowered, hissing under her breath: "George!"

Voldemort gave the young man a glare worthy of his snake-faced self, before checking himself. Keeping his flaring temper on a short rein – _this was a direct insult to himself, and one he didn't care for at all_ – he said clippedly: "I didn't ask for this." 

Quiet fell in the room, and the twin-that-lived sneered at him: "I bet your mother did ask for it."

He almost rolled his eyes. _Now, he'd have to give a show of temper, to defend his fictitious mother. But, and it went without saying, he couldn't allow himself to lose control, showing off his real temper._ Glaring at George Weasley, he said: "Come again? Don't you dare insult my mother."

Young Weasley shrugged, a vicious smile on his face, before saying: "She had to be a slut for opening her legs for _him_."

Narrowing his eyes, he thought: _Ok, just a little. Just a little steam_. In a moment, his finger – not his wand, though his wand hand twitched – was in George Weasley's face, and he spoke clearly, but still low: "Don't. You. Dare. To. Insult. My. Mother. Again." 

He knew his eyes were hard, glinting with fire, and he poured all his anger out through his eyes. Those cowardly Malfoys would have been quaking with fear by now, but this young man, this stupid, reckless Gryffindor, only backed a few steps. _He had no idea that he had entered a stand-off with Lord Voldemort himself._

Arthur Weasley came forward, taking his son by the scruff of his neck, dragging him away, while shouting an apology: "We're so sorry. George isn't coping very well, has never been, really, but this was uncalled for. I hope you'll forgive us, and him. We didn't mean for this to happen. Come on George, you stay away if you can't keep a civil tongue, son."

Working his jaw, he nodded stiffly, but made a show of visibly relaxing himself. Taking a deep breath, he said to Molly Weasley: "I'm sorry too. My mother is a touchy subject for me. She went through so much, and I can't stand listening to someone saying things like that. If you want me to leave, I'll understand that, no hard feelings." He gave her an earnest look, and it worked perfectly.

The Weasley matriarch teared up, _embracing_ him, of all things, and said: "I think it's really sweet of you to defend your mother like that. Please stay, if you don't feel like this was too much for you. We'll talk to George, but like Arthur said, he's not really himself, and it's been difficult for him since Fred died. I hope you'll be able to forgive him."

"I can see that," he said, giving her a small smile. "I'd be happy to stay, if it's not an inconvenience to you all."

Xxxx

Later, after dinner, Ron Weasley challenged the lot of them to play Quidditch. Cheering happened, and suddenly close to everyone, to his surprise, was swarming towards the front door, running towards a garden shed, yelling dibs on the best brooms.

Blinking, he moved slowly after them, only the older Weasleys staying inside, and he caught up to Granger just outside the door. She was standing still with a fond smile, watching her friends having friendly fights over brooms, of all things.

Glancing at him, she said: "I'm not playing. Are you? They'll be happy if you join them."

"I've never really played, I'll just watch," he responded, opting to stay on the ground with Granger, while the others swooped around on their brooms. _He hadn't bothered much with Quidditch at Hogwarts, as there were infinitely more interesting things to explore. Though, he was sure he'd be good at it, if he turned his attention to it._

Furrowing his brow, he suddenly wondered if Granger would care if he did play, but he wasn't about to make a fool of himself in front of her by trying now, after all these years. _Besides, what if he slipped up, and entered free flight instead? They'd all be suspicious like hell by seeing that, though the spell, once mastered, was easy enough._ Out loud, he admitted: "It's been a long time since I flew a broom."

She gave him a brief smile, indicating to him that they should move into the garden, admitting: "I don't like flying," shaking her head. "I'm afraid of heights."

"You are?" he said, a little surprised.

She flushed, and said: "I'm not proud of it, but I can't seem to shake the fear."

He shrugged, and said in a reassuring tone: "You don't have to, you know. With other options like Apparition, the Floo and Port-keys, why would you need a broom, really?"

"I get by just fine," she said, "but it's mostly other people that's bothered by me not flying. There are lots of comments and such, because people find it strange. But I guess my balance isn't as good as other people's. I get very dizzy by any means of traveling."

He pursed his lips as he looked at her, and flicked out his wand. "You need a Stabilizing Spell," he said.

"A what?" she questioned.

"Stabilizing. It's a charm, to be used with any kind of activity that makes you dizzy. Arch your wand around yourself like this," he moved his arm in a broad arch, spinning around himself, "and the spell is _Stabilias_."

She muttered the incantation under her breath, and moved her wand, imitating him.

"The arch should be a little wider," he said, "like this," repeating the movement.

She nodded, giving it another try.

Voldemort cocked his head. “Not quite right,” he said, “allow me…” 

Stepping behind her, he slid his hands underneath her arms, gripping her wrists firmly. 

The small, sharp intake of her breath went straight to his cock, and he was suddenly so very aware of how small and fragile she was, compared to himself, and how lovely her arse felt like, pressed into his thighs. 

Swallowing hard, he concentrated on the spell, moving her arms slowly through the motions, repeating it a couple of times to get it just perfect. 

"That's it," he said, voice a little hoarse. "Now Apparate somewhere, and do the spell before you Apparate."

They walked through the garden and to the gate, and she lifted the latch to venture outside. She cast the Charm, before Apparating fifty feet. He heard a whooping sound from her, before she Apparated back.

Her face flushed and happy, she said: "It worked! Why hasn't anyone taught me this before?"

He smiled, and said: "Because it's my own invention." _He was quite sure he hadn't taught anyone this, or the whole wizarding world would have been using it. It was simple, yet very effective, and a solution to an almost universal problem of magical travel being unpleasant._

Her face was suitably impressed, and he literally basked in her admiration. _Yes, he had been right, she loved magic more than flying_. He had definitely made the right choice by staying on ground.

Standing beside her, they resumed watching the fliers. He glanced down her cleavage, his height giving him an almost unimpeded view of the swell of her breasts, and his cock twitched again. _Those tits… He pictured those lovely breasts bouncing over him as she rode his cock. Yes, she'd be sweaty and panting, touching herself with abandon as he fondled those perfect globes, running his thumb over the underside of her breasts and up the sides, before rearing up to lick and suck those hard nipples…_ Suddenly, he saw that her face was flushed, her chest was heaving, and oh, those perky nipples were standing out to attention right now.

Almost swearing under his breath, he realized that he had projected his fantasy at her, unconsciously so. She had been a bystander to his fantasy, and now, she was affected. _Luckily_ , he realized, _she being clueless in Mind Magic, she probably thought it was all her own doing. Her very own, dirty imagination, cooking up a fantasy of the two of them fucking_. It almost made him chuckle. The fact that she didn't look shocked or surprised spoke volumes.

He put a hand down, touching the small of her back lightly, and the girl let out a small gasp, her mouth half open, so kissable, so ready for him to take her right there on the lawn of her supposedly future inlaws. He could see the blood pounding at her throat, and her eyelids fluttered, like she was dizzy. Himself, he felt a little woozy, wanting nothing more than to wrestle her down on top of him right now, but with an effort, he murmured:

"We should go in, to help Mrs. and Mr. Weasley cleaning up the mess we left," keeping up his pretense of being the ever diligent and polite young wizard.

"Yes," she said, blushing furiously, avoiding his eyes. But as they walked towards the rickety house, she walked so close to him that their robes were rustling against each other.

Xxxx

He woke up, feeling pleasantly rested and relaxed, stretching in his silk sheets. It was early Monday morning, and he scratched his stomach, hand brushing over his morning wood. _Merlin, feeling Granger's response to his fantasy had been a blast_. 

Taking himself in hand, tugging slowly, for a brief while imagining that his fist was Granger’s small hand, he sighed before opening his eyes. His room at Grimmauld was immaculate, the decrepit House-elf having taken an immediate liking to him. The dark green silk tapestries on the walls were clean, old rents mended expertly, and the dark wooden floor gleamed. His four-poster bed, an old monstrosity of black-laquered wood, was polished, and the green velvet hangings were spotless. Along the walls, his books were meticulously sorted by first subject, then alphabetically. No visitors, not even the House-elf, would be able to see that he had Transfigured a closet into a much larger room, an entire Dark Arts library hidden by a now invisible door. _There was too little time to read in private, as Potter and Ginny Weasley expected him to socialize in the evenings. Then again, the two of them often went ‘early to bed’, leaving him with a few hours to read, brew or practise._

_Well, it was Monday morning, and he certainly couldn’t laze about in bed jerking off. Doing so in the shower was much more cost-effective, given his limited time._

Jumping out of the bed, he slung his black, velvet bathrobe over his shoulders and headed out to the bathroom. 12 Grimmauld Place held a bathroom for every floor, and as Potter and the Weasley girl stayed on the second floor, while Ron Weasley occupied the third floor, the top floor bathroom was solely his. He appreciated that, because waiting in turn to shower in the morning was not something he would care for.

Vaguely, as he took himself in hand in the shower, slowly pumping the length of his cock, he wondered where Granger had spent the night. He was quite sure she wasn't back with Weasley yet, though she had Floo'ed back to Grimmauld with them last night. _Maybe she had slept in the library. That would be just like her._

The hot water splashed over him, and he increased the water pressure with a flick of his magic, making the water pound into his shoulders and back, massaging his muscles, making him stretch and groan. Reliving the memory of Granger’s arousal, he expanded his fantasy, imagining the chit in the shower with him. _He would pin her naked wet body to the wall, her legs around his hips as he pumped into her tight heat, thrusting hard. She would be soaked and slick, moaning his name, her nails scratching his back as she came on his cock with little whimpers…_ His orgasm came quickly, and he groaned, leaning his head to the shower wall for support, while his body shook, splattering the tiles with white, sticky liquid. Panting, he slowly came down, wondering if she’d ever live up to his fantasies. 

Toweling himself dry, with a large, fluffy towel, the kind you would find in very expensive hotels, he smiled as he remembered the eagerness of the shop assistant, heaping lots of luxury towels, bed sheets and other household things on him. _People were so happy to help under the Imperius. It was almost touching_. 

Before opening the door, he shrugged into his bathrobe again, tying the belt sloppily, and right outside, he stopped short, almost bumping into Granger, looking antsy and anxious.

"Well, hello there!" he said, more than a little surprised. He hadn't expected her to intrude on his floor, after all. Maybe he would have to ward his rooms better, if she was prone to snooping.

"I'm sorry," she said nervously, "could I use your bathroom? Ron … well, he won't let me enter any of the rooms set aside for him, and Harry is in the shower…"

His eyebrows shot up. "Ron has barred you from his rooms?" _Weasley must have been pissed indeed._

"Ah, well, yes, you see, we had a disagreement last night." She bit her lips nervously, before saying defiantly to him, with a faint blush on her cheeks: "We're not … We have different ideas of how to progress. He called me… Let's just say, he's got some grovelling to do, before I'll talk to him again."

Keeping the grin off his face, he nodded. "Of course," he gestured to the bathroom, "make yourself at home. There are more towels in the cupboard."

She gave him a twitchy, little smile, stepping around him. He noticed her inhale deeply, and then her eyes fluttered shut. He couldn't help himself, and grabbed her arm, restraining her from moving past him, lifting his other hand to stroke her cheek, gripping her chin, turning her head towards him. With a small sigh, she nuzzled into his palm, resting her head for a moment. "You smell good," she said dreamily, before her eyes flitted open in shock by her own forwardness. She jumped into the bathroom, shutting the door with a bang.

Xxxx

"I might have to kill you if you tell anyone about learning this from me," he said, half-serious, half joking to the young Weasley girl in the kitchen. She nodded fervently, eyes big, as she watched him avidly.

"Wow," Ginny Weasley said slowly. "My Mum would have saved years of her life if she had known how to do this."

He was standing still in the middle of the kitchen, with his arms crossed, and the countertops was a whirlwind of flour and liquid and stirring sticks, his magic proving the dough in a minute, before four breads stood ready to bake in the oven. With a flick of his wand, a series of cleaning spells were set into motion, making the kitchen spotless.

His lips quirked in amusement, and Voldemort said: "It's a series of spells, layered and locked into one superstructure spell. It's my own invention. This way, baking bread takes less than five minutes, plus oven time." _And it was his own invention, really. After Hogwarts, he had been a bachelor all his life without the means to afford a House-elf. While he wasn't staying in his followers' houses, there was still no reason to eat poor quality food. Magic could make cooking so much better and easier, just like it improved anything else._

From behind him, he heard Granger's voice. "You must be one hell of a Potioneer too, with baking skills like that."

Turning around, seeing her hair wet from _his_ shower, he grinned at her envious face, saying: "I'm not bad, actually. Do you enjoy brewing too?"

"Yes," she said, "but I haven't done much after leaving school."

"Maybe we should set up a session, then," he suggested. "It'll be nice to have company. I like to experiment."

"You do?" Ginny Weasley said. "You should get together with George, he loves to make new things, at least, he did…," her voice faltered.

As gently as he could manage, though anger simmered at the thought of _that fucking idiot_ , he said: "Depends on if he can stand being in the same room as me," feigning sadness.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Weasley said, "he'll come around, it's just that…"

The pause was awkward, and then Granger said with a forced brightness: "What are you wearing for the Ministry ball, Ginny?"

"Oh, I don't know. Same dress as I had on the Victory ball last year, I imagine, that is, if it still fits," Weasley said. "How about you, Hermione? And…, are you going with Ron?"

Granger sighed, giving him a quick look. "I would think so, though who knows?"

"What kind of ball is this?" he said.

"They've started a tradition of having a quarterly ball for the employees and their significant others," Weasley said. "It's supposed to boost morale and cheer people up. It's next weekend."

He raised his eyebrows, and said: "Is it working?"

Granger shrugged. "I don't know. It's too much, if you ask me. There is a Yule ball, a spring ball, a Victory ball in May, and finally a Halloween ball. Some people enjoy it, and it's the talk or the Ministry."

He shook his head. "I haven't heard a thing about it."

Granger smirked. "Maybe not in the Mysteries. The Unspeakables are an unpredictable lot."

_A ball, and she was going with Ron Weasley. Oh well, he'd make sure she wasn't attending with anyone but himself. Weasley would, unfortunately, fall ill._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, the baking scene... That was a really silly idea which I couldn't let go. I figured, Voldemort as I write him enjoys the good things in life. He was poor, lived alone, and so he must have cooked for himself. I think he would have done so with magic, and as always, he would have excelled.


	9. Watching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Or not," he murmured, knowing a thing or two about the minds of angry, possessive wizards, while he slowly rubbed her bare back, making her sigh in pleasure, sinking into his touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added a tag for voyeurism. ;-) 
> 
> Thanks for reading, commenting and sending kudos! I'm so happy you enjoy reading, because I loved writing it. It's definitely the most immoral story I've ever had the pleasure of writing - and it’s just about to get worse. *grins*
> 
> This chapter holds a few of my favourite Malfoy moments (from my own hand, that is...).

On Wednesday, he took Granger to visit Delphini. They were to meet up with Lucius Malfoy outside the Rowle's house. He had tolerated the man accompanying him so far, because it was too amusing watching him quake with fear.

Now, he realized that he might have made a mistake. He had revealed more of his darker side to Malfoy, maybe because it had felt natural, acting like he would have done with his Knights. The man was, after all, one of his old followers, and scaring him was simply _fun._ Consequently, he had allowed himself to show more arrogance, anger and coldness, and he had asserted his power by ordering the man around. Now, he would have to align that with the nice façade he had shown Granger. _But, as always, success was a case of planning ahead and clever manipulations._

He drew her aside, stopping them before they reached the house. "Hermione," he said slowly. She stopped, looking up at him expectantly. "I have to tell you something. I haven't been especially nice to Malfoy."

She snorted. "I can see why," she said.

"Yes, but… It's difficult," he said, pretending to be worried, frowning a little. "He thinks I'm like _him_. It sets me on edge, a lot, and maybe… I …" he stopped, like he had trouble getting the words out, giving her a pleading look.

"I see," she said slowly, before supplying him with words: "So, in a way, you act differently with him, because he expects you to be … bad."

"Yes," he said, letting out his breath like a whoosh of relief.

Hermione smiled, her warm, brown eyes shining with mirth at him. "Don't worry. I will not tell _Malfoy_ " – her mouth twisting into a sneer – "that you actually are a nice guy. If you want to show Lucius Malfoy that you don't like him, I will most certainly not stay in your way. He's a despicable, evil person. I won't ever forget the way he watched me being tortured in his drawing room by Bellatrix…" she stopped short, giving him a look, before continuing: "that is, I won't hold that against the _girl_ , you know."

"I know," he said, patting her arm, plastering a relieved look on his face. _Gods, she was so smart, but so very gullible, so ready to believe the best in people. He would have to inquire about her torture sometime later, to satisfy his … professional … interest, of course._

They resumed walking, seeing Lucius Malfoy standing outside the house. This time, the man had dressed in green robes with silver trimmings, his boots polished to a shine to rival the sun, and his hair was gathered at his nape.

"Pony tail," Granger whispered maliciously to him, and he could barely hide his smirk.

"Granger," Malfoy said coolly, before turning to him with that special, nervous twitch that seemed to be especially reserved for Voldemort: "T-T-Tom."

He nodded to him, and Granger said with a disdainful sniff: "Malfoy."

Entering the house, the child came running again, and with a sinking feeling as she hugged him, he realized that he had to fake a new emotion for Granger's benefit: he had to pretend to _love_ Delphini _._

It was disgusting, really, and he had never done so before: This was the one emotion he'd never tried to fake before, because he had never needed it. He had faked friendships and pretended to be a good person, but he had never had any family to worry about, nor a long-time partner. And now, he had to play the role of a loving, older brother. Casting around in his mind for someone to model his act on, he was at loss, having never paid attention to how people acted towards their siblings. _He would have to freestyle_.

"How are you?" he said softly to the squealing little brat.

"Good! I love you, Tom, will you teach me another spell?" the child said with shining eyes. He kissed her cheek, and turned her to Granger.

"First, I want you to meet Hermione," he said gravely. "Hermione, this is Delphini. Delphini, this is Hermione."

The child took one look at Hermione, and then she pouted. "Do you love her more than me?"

"What?" he said, flabbergasted.

Behind him, he heard Malfoy chuckle in disbelief, and his irritation spiked. _Being forced to pretend love, being called out on it by his own progeny, and then his thrice-damned follower had the audacity to laugh?_

"If she's here, does this mean she's my sister too?" the child asked, looking at Granger with curiosity.

Granger laughed, and shook her head. "No, I'm his friend, Delphini, and I wanted to meet you."

Blinking, he had to admit to himself that his daughter had an odd sort of logic, but it made sense nonetheless. She had, all of a sudden, been presented with a brother, and for all she knew, when an unknown witch showed up, she could very well have turned out to be a sister.

"Ok," Delphini said apprehensively, squinting a little at Granger. Then she turned back to him, and poked her little finger into his chest. "You are supposed to love **me** the most," she informed him imperiously.

At that, he laughed, a real laugh, his irritation sliding off him like drops of water. _Yes, she was definitely his daughter. He could recognize his sense of entitlement in her, always expecting to be_ **_the one_** _. His brat showed promise, that's what she did._

"I love you," he said, lying through his teeth, turning his most charming smile on full tilt to his daughter, and she beamed at him. _An added bonus was the clear effect this had on Granger too. She was clearly touched by the display. Maybe he was better at faking love than he had thought, then._

After a while, Granger was sitting on the floor with Delphini, showing her how to make little bluebell flames in her hand. The child had mastered the spell after a few tries, and Granger was clearly impressed.

Lucius Malfoy sat, hands folded primly at first, in a chair beside Euphemia Rowle, a pale, drawn witch, looking like she had had too many sorrows in her life. The woman didn't have much to offer in conversation, and Malfoy was soon picking at his immaculate cuticles, managing to look both bored and nervous at the same time. _Gods, did the man use some kind of nail polish potion? He wouldn't put it past him._

Himself, he stood by the fireplace, watching Granger and Delphini. It seemed to go splendidly, and he was sure Granger would be able to mother his child if he ended up marrying her.

_Though, he had to find a suitable nanny. Granger would not be pleased to stay at home rearing children. The chit had ambitions, and that was one of the things that made her interesting. Besides, in his opinion, you either scared people into submission or you kept them in a reasonably happy oblivion. Anything between led to questions and surges of uprising, which again led to either making an effort to suppress them or even worse, trying to make up with people. He did not want to spend time doing either in his private life. Consequently, to acquire Granger, he'd have to settle for making her happy._

Then the Rowle woman left to get something from another room, and Malfoy said in a low voice: "So, you and Granger, huh?"

"What about us?" He moved closer to the silly fop, making sure that Granger wouldn't overhear them.

"I thought she had it going with the Weasel brat," Malfoy answered.

He shot an amused glance at Malfoy, lifting his eyebrow, before saying smoothly: "Oh, she does… at the moment."

Malfoy's eyes widened, and he said slowly: "Ah, I see. Interesting." Leaning back in his chair, he said softly, his eyes intent on Voldemort's face: "A very good move."

Furrowing his brow in displeasure, he said curtly: "She's an intriguing witch." _Did Malfoy think he could outsmart him, to make him reveal his plans?_ Giving the man a glare meant to rattle him, he continued: "You seem to assume many things about me, _Lucius_. Do not overstep."

Malfoy paled visibly, licking his lips, before whispering: "I'm sorry, my Lo…, I mean, Tom. I didn't mean anything by it. You must forgive an old Slytherin who played games long before you were born."

He snorted, lifting his eyebrow arrogantly. "I'm sure. But I warn you, don't toe the line with me." _He wondered if Malfoy really had bought his story. Did he suspect anything? Sometimes, Malfoy acted like he thought him to be Lord Voldemort. Why did Malfoy do so, and if so, what had given him away?_

Testing the man's mind, he brushed against a fairly strong Occlumency wall. He retreated, knowing that even though he could force entry, such an act would be paramount to ring the bell. The act of forced Legilimency was a very distinct experience, and for a trained Occlumens, it was easy to recognize the feel of another's mind. _This wasn't worth the risk, at least not with Granger in the room. Later, he could break into Malfoy's mind and Obliviate him afterwards, but it was too dangerous right now._

Delphini's pealing laughter turned his attention, and Granger was laughing too. The child had made a crown for herself by the small, bluebell flames, and Granger had Conjured a mirror for her, his daughter preening in front of it.

"I'm a queen!" the child crowed. "Look, Tom, I'm a queen, I'm a queen!"

"Indeed you are, princess," he said, smiling indulgently, before sitting down on the floor with them. "And if you are royalty, my sweet, you'll need a dress with a train. Would you like me to Transfigure your dress?"

"Yes!" she shouted, eyes shining with happiness. "And you," she said, pointing to Malfoy, " **you** are my servant!"

At that, he laughed out loud, helplessly, by seeing Malfoy's shocked face. _His daughter had nailed the truth. Malfoy was nothing but a lowly servant, so far below him and his heir, it was almost ridiculous._

Granger burst out laughing too, a husky chuckle turning into full-blown peals of malignant laughter by seeing Lucius' pale face, nervously twitching hands and wide-eyed, frightened stare.

Xxxx

On Friday morning, the very same day as the Ministry spring ball, he quietly hexed Ron Weasley in the hall. The man clutched his stomach, bolting for the bathroom, and soon violent retching was heard. The spell was an easy one, a darker version of the common hex _Dia-horr-iblia,_ meant to fake a stomach bug, and it would last for 16 hours. There was no way Ron Weasley would make it to the Ministry Spring ball. He would spend the time crouching over a basin.

Meeting Potter by the door, ready to Apparate into the Ministry’s Atrium, he said, worriedly: "I think Ron's ill. He's throwing up."

Potter frowned, saying: "He was supposed to go to the ball today, with Hermione. I know she doesn't want to go alone, because she'll be swamped by wizards. She has a lot of suitors, as well as a couple of stalkers and would-be-attackers too. Could you … ask her to go with you? I know she wants to go, though she pretends that it doesn't matter to her."

"Of course," he said courteously. "I'll do it as soon as I arrive at the Ministry."

Xxxx

 _Granger looked good on his arm._ This ball was a test, to see if she could manage to appear as the lady he would expect her to be by his side.

He had been pleased as she came down the stairs at Grimmauld Place, together with Ginny Weasley. In the foyer, he had waited for _ages_ with Potter, both of them nursing a Firewhisky as their witches got themselves ready. He had thought he had taken care with his appearance, showering, grooming his hair, shaving meticulously and dressing with care, but it was obviously nothing compared to what the witches were doing. Their result, however, was stunning, and he felt his cock lurch in appreciation.

Granger's dress was impeccable, a long, black halterneck with an open back, and her jewellery was elegant and discrete, with pearls in her ears and a single drop in the hollow of her throat. With her hair up, she looked enticing, her neck so slender that he thought he might easily break it with one hand. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noted that the Weasley girl looked good in her green dress, and Potter had beamed at the sight of her.

Himself, he had taken care to wear inky black dressrobes, with a crisp white shirt underneath his robe. _Yes, Granger and him looked good together, and now, he could feel the participants at the ball stare at them, whispering and pointing._

Potter and Ginny Weasley were dancing, but Granger seemed to prefer talking to people, just like he did. He made sure to talk to his contacts in the Wizengamot, spending extra time with the Shacklebolt faction, plus making a number of new acquaintances, some who could become useful later on. Granger behaved herself well, both introducing him to interesting people she already knew, as well as having polite conversations with completely unknown people he had wanted to mingle with. _He wondered briefly if she would have done well in Slytherin, Mudblood or no. He supposed so, though she would have had to work hard to sharpen her cunning and suppress her atrocious tendencies for open honesty._

Suddenly, she stiffened, and he looked at her. "Draco Malfoy," she muttered, staring straight ahead.

Walking towards them with a slippery smile, he recognized the young, blonde wizard from his first day at Diagon Alley. The young man was swaying slightly on his feet, and he clasped Granger's hand much too tight with a feral grin.

"Granger, you look good," he slurred, eyes unfocused. "Where have you hidden the Weasel, and why are you here traipsing around with the spitting image of the young Dark Lord? Have you finally acquired a taste for darkness and resurrected the man?"

Voldemort felt his anger start simmering, but outwardly, he just lifted an eyebrow, giving Granger a questioning glance.

She rolled her eyes in irritation, snapping: "Malfoy, Ron is ill. This is Tom Riddle, and yes, if you hadn't lived in a barrel of Firewhisky over the last months, you would _know_ who he is. Please, leave me alone, will you? Go bother someone else, or even better, make your poor wife take you home!"

The Malfoy heir looked affronted, saying: "There's no need to be so rude, Granger, though I shouldn't be surprised with _your_ background and breeding."

He wondered idly if he should step in to defend Granger's honour. Certainly, that would be something a wizard was expected to do for his witch, though he had never cared to so for any other fling. If she was to be a more permanent fixture, he should probably put in an effort. But Granger reacted quickly, and all by herself:

"Shut it, Malfoy!", she snarled, eyes glinting dangerously. "You Malfoys might tell the Wizengamot all about your reformed ways, but I don't believe you for a second. You're still a Pure-blood bigot who'd gladly start the war all over again. Watch me, or I'll dig up whatever dirt you are hiding!"

"Not bloody likely," Malfoy snorted. "He," and he pointed a shaking finger at Voldemort, "he almost fucking killed us the last time. I wanted to give you a piece of well-meaning advice, Granger. Don't mess with the likes of him."

Grumbling, Granger dragged him away, and he gathered her into his arms, moving onto the dance floor. "Merlin," she muttered, "keep me away from him, or I'll hex him, that bloody…." She bit her lip, giving him a quick glance, before saying: "Sorry you had to be dragged into this."

"What the hell was that about?" he asked, both angry and at the same time curious about her reactions and the odd behaviour of this younger Malfoy. _Very irrational, very non-Slytherin. Almost like the younger Malfoy too knew who he was behind his nice-Tom-façade._

She visibly tried to calm herself, and said curtly: "He had a nervous breakdown of sorts after the war, and has marinated his brains in Firewhisky ever since. His wife, Astoria Greengrass, works in the Department of International Cooperation, that's why he's here. And he still gets away with everything, being a Malfoy. They still have clout, unbelievably enough, after everything that happened and what they all did."

Musing, he said: "Do you really think him to be so far gone he can't see the difference between me and …"

She snorted. "Not at all. As I said, he's sick. He just wanted to get a raise out of me, or you, because that's what he does these days, drinking and starting fights."

He shrugged arrogantly. "If he wants to fight me, let him try."

She looked up at him, irritation leaving her eyes, and she gave him a mischievous smile that went straight to his groin. "I wouldn't put my money on him. You could take him out without breaking a sweat, or what?"

"Probably," he murmured, adding for good measure: "you could do it too, you know."

"Maybe," she said, resting her head against his chest, "but I might be hard pressed. Malfoy was actually very accomplished and promising while we were at school."

He pulled her closer to him, because he wanted to feel her body against him. She felt good, soft curves pressed to his stomach and chest, and he let his hand trail up and down her bare back in lazy circles. His cock was stirring, and he wondered how she'd react to feeling his hardness against her sternum. _Would she be…?_

"Hermione! There you are," Molly Weasley's voice broke through his thoughts. "And Tom! How lovely of you to take Hermione here when Ron fell ill. How is my baby boy, Hermione? Is he in a bad shape?"

Granger straightened, leaning slightly away from him, and gave a forced smile to the Weasley woman. Arthur Weasley came tagging behind his wife, and he grinned widely at them. "Typical, but Ron hates these things. Are you sure he's ill, Hermione, or is he merely hiding somewhere, playing chess?"

Voldemort felt his irritation rising at the interruption. _He was about to rub his cock against Granger, and her boyfriend’s stupid parents came running to make a bother of themselves. Could they be_ **_any_ ** _more in his way?_

After a short while of mindless conversation, he excused himself, leaving for the bathroom.

In front of the urinal, swaying as he tried to unbutton his fly, young Malfoy was swearing softly to himself. Voldemort narrowed his eyes as he saw him, taking care to stand as far away from him as he could. _Who knew? Malfoy could be drunk enough to miss the urinal._

The young wizard looked up, staring bleary-eyed at him, before slurring: "You! How come you came back? Did you time-travel, or what? You look different. Not so… snakishy."

He felt his mouth thin in irritation. _Gods, the last thing he needed was a drunk Malfoy going about proclaiming him to be Lord Voldemort._

Swivelling his head sharply to the side, he snapped: "If you really think I am _him_ , you must really like living on the edge, don't you?" _Rage was bubbling inside, and he wanted to curse Malfoy to Camelot and back for his drunken perceptiveness. He had to stay in character, he had too! But how could the man even suspect him? Was he clairvoyant, or what?_

Malfoy hiccupped, moving closer, and put his hand heavily on his shoulder. "You coming back here to fuck the Mudblood princess is not what I expected at all. If you're after her, you would want to keep a toe on the right line. She's so prissy and prudish, she'd die of shock if you showed her dark magic. So if you want her… Nah, that's why I'm safe and good, you can't kill me. She'd kick you out and kill you. _Again._ "

He shook off the boy's hand, _his former follower, a traitor,_ and gritted out, his temper flaring dangerously: "Don't interfere with my actions, Malfoy, or I might show you a thing or two about your rightful place!"

Malfoy sniggered, finally succeeding in opening his fly to take a piss, and said tauntingly over his shoulder: "Must be dreadful for you, not being able to Crucio at will anymore. Father says your true self shines through at times. Come on, do your worst, _Lord Voldemort_." And by that, Malfoy spread out his arms to present himself as a willing target.

Unfortunately, the young wizard wasn't done urinating, and his flaccid, pale cock sprayed a fine shower of golden drops over the wall, Mafoy's own pants and then – _almost in slow motion_ – Voldemort saw several droplets hitting his own black, polished shoes. Everything went red, and he had his wand up in Malfoy's face in a second, snarling the silly incantation of the Tongue-Tying Curse, " _Mimblewimble, Tom Riddle est Lord Voldemort!"_ With that in place, Malfoy wouldn't be able to talk about him as Lord Voldemort anymore.

The Malfoy boy's face grimaced comically, as his tongue was knotted by the curse, and Voldemort grinned maliciously, before casting a weak " _Reducto!_ " at Malfoy's left kneecap, crushing the bones with a sickening loud, crunching sound that made his spine tingle with pleasure. The blonde man sank to the ground, whimpering in pain. Looking up with those scared, blue eyes – _oh, the rush of seeing such a fear, it was intoxicating_ – Malfoy tried to drag himself away from Voldemort, using his arms and one, good leg.

Cocking his head, Voldemort ruthlessly broke the sink away from the wall, Levitating and smashing the sink into the crawling man's legs, and there was a short, quickly Silenced scream of pain, before Voldemort extended his wand with a whispered " _Obliviate!"_

Water flooded out from the broken pipes where the sink had been, quickly making a pool on the floor, as Malfoy's memories of the event and his theory of the young wizard named Tom Riddle being Lord Voldemort shimmered out of existence in his mind.

Panting, he felt the rage recede like a waving rolling back from the beach, and a rush of pleasure scoured through him. _Merlin, to put people in their place like this was something he missed. This was … excellent. Manipulation would only give so much satisfaction, but violence, causing pain – there was nothing like it, really._

Taking a step back, he swished a quick " _Tergeo_!" at his shoes, mouth wrenching in distaste by the thought of having Malfoy's _piss_ covering his shoes.

Hearing a noise, he looked up, seeing Potter, the man's face turning into an expression of comical shock.

"Merlin, Tom, what happened here?"

"Malfoy just had an accident," he said, pretending to be flustered and worried. "He was taking a piss, and then suddenly he was flailing about with his wand, and the sink exploded right into his legs. I think something must be broken."

Kneeling down by Malfoy's side, he said, trying to hide his malicious glee: "Can you talk, Malfoy?"

"Oooof," the blonde man groaned, his breath a stink of Firewhisky and wine, and he curled up into himself, rocking slightly. Voldemort quickly rose, shaking his head to Potter: "We need to send him off to St. Mungo's. He's clearly not alright."

Potter nodded, staring at Malfoy with worry, before looking at Voldemort with a serious expression. "Did he, did he … _say_ anything to you?"

He felt his face wrench into a look of scorn, and he grunted: "As a matter of fact, he did. He claimed that I'm _him_ , and his wand waving was him aiming to defend himself from _me_ , though it didn't work out as he had planned."

"You didn't interfere in any way, did you?" Potter looked nervous, but he had a professional, no-nonsense attitude about him.

Voldemort snorted. "No, what happened to him, was caused entirely by himself." _That's exactly how it was, because if the man had known when to shut up, nothing would have happened at all. It was all Malfoy's own fault, really._

Potter looked relieved, giving him a small smile. "Just doing my job, you know."

At that, he grinned. _Potter was such a goody-two-shoes. And how was it possible to be a professional Auror with such a lack of suspicion? It was close to unbelievable._ Out loud, he said: "You are, aren't you? Well, Malfoy is more a case for my office than yours. Someone should sort out that mess that passes for his mind."

Xxxx

The rest of the night had been pleasant, with quiet, useful conversations and some dancing with Granger. She had turned out to be literally _hunted_ by a few wizards, and he had had to assert his authority as her date a couple of times to give her a dignified rescue. They had, of course, scattered by the sight of his glare. 

She had been grateful, telling him that this and that wizard had been stalking her since the end of the war, trying to get attention and to get her alone with them. Shrugging, she said: "Maybe it would be best if they actually tried something. Then I could curse them, and after that, they would leave me alone."

"Or not," he murmured, knowing a thing or two about the minds of angry, possessive wizards, while he slowly rubbed her bare back, making her sigh in pleasure, sinking into his touch.

Later, he had a whispered conversation with his colleague, the Head of the Space Research Office, Amanda Trelligorn, about the quickly deteriorating health of Saul Croaker. The witch was in her forties, and had proven herself to be fairly smart after recovering from her severe cold.

"The man started to cough earlier this week, and look at him now, his breath is rattling in his chest," she whispered, both glancing at their boss. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he was stooped, regularly clutching his chest, like his hands could steady his breathing.

"I know," he said with a serious expression, "he should go to St. Mungos."

"He won't," she said with certainty, "not before he's close to dying, at least. I think he's afraid of Healers."

"If he's ill, who'll be the interim Head of Department?" he asked, knowing full well that it wouldn't be anyone but himself. _Though it was always a sound strategy to find out what other people believed._

She furrowed her brow. "Usually, it would be Lauryn Melliflour, but she will not do it anymore, claiming to be too old, as she's thinking about retiring. Those other two…" she gave him a significant look, and his mouth quirked. _They agreed, then. The Heads of the Offices of Love and Prophecy were idiots, after all._

"What about you?" he said softly.

She shook her head. "I have five children. Being Head of the Space Office is enough for the moment, I don't want the added responsibility. At this point in life, I want to spend some time with my kids too, not just work every evening and weekends."

"Do you think Shacklebolt will find someone outside the Department?" he asked.

She gave him an indulgent smile. "No, Tom, I'm quite sure he'll choose _you."_

He gave her a smile, as the rush of satisfaction went through him. _One thing was knowing the fact himself, but it was even better when other people realized he was the obvious winner too._

Xxxx

He had delivered Granger at the library door at Grimmauld Place at exactly one a.m. in the morning. Tiredly, she had hugged him goodnight, before slipping inside to sleep with the books. It seemed cosy: The fire was going in the fireplace, and she had a big, woollen blanket on the sofa. He could very well have curled up in there for the night, though it was better to stretch out in his own, luxuriously large bed.

The next day, Granger had nursed Weasley back to health, and on Sunday, Voldemort managed to extricate himself from visiting the Burrow, getting some much appreciated time alone. He was simply not used to being around other people all the time. _It grated on his nerves._

Later in the day, they had all Floo'ed back to Grimmauld, and it was obvious that Weasley and Granger were having a go at repairing their relationship. _What had happened while he was doing his solitary practise rounds of dark magic? Had they become friends again? Why?_

Seeing Weasley holding Granger possessively to him, he felt _irritable_. Watching Weasley's hands, pawing her delicious body, and his mouth doling out slobbering kisses made him _sick_. Granger looked slightly uncomfortable in the face of being fondled in front of her friends, and she suggested rather quickly retiring for the evening. Witnessing her leaving the room, while Weasley walking beside her as he caressed her arse, made his heart pound in time with his rage.

 _It was wrong. Granger belonged to him._ Making a spur-of the-moment decision, he excused himself to Potter and his girlfriend, and in the hallway, he Disillusioned and Silenced himself, Apparating right into their bedroom seconds before Weasley dragged Granger over the doorstep. _He would destroy this. It couldn't come to pass._

"'Mione," Weasley murmured, "I've missed this." He kissed her neck, and wrenched off her button-down shirt, attacking her chest with wet kisses. Voldemort winced by the sound, and from the looks of it, Granger wasn't all that impressed either.

Weasley worked effectively, and in a minute, Granger was naked. Voldemort felt his breath hitch, and his cock swelled to attention. Even through his anger at watching the display, he was able to appreciate Granger's body. _He had been right. Her tits were lovely. Round, firm, with pink nipples, and rather small, virginal areolas. The size was just right, and he was willing to bet they would fit nicely into his palm._ Rubbing his cock outside his trousers, his eyes wandered down to her narrow waist, and lower, where her hips flared out, with a dark thatch of curls in the middle.

Then Weasley parted her legs, pushing his fingers between her legs, and he groaned: "I love your pussy, 'Mione! You're so tight, just a moment, and I'll get some moisture here…" Weasley retracted his fingers, spat on them, before gripping her sex again with a grunt.

The girl winced with a small grimace, and she said softly: "Not so rough, Ron, you know I don't like that before I'm wet enough."

Gritting his teeth, Voldemort decided this had gone on for too long. _He wouldn't watch this, his witch being groped, no matter how sweet the view of her body was._

He entered Weasley's mind, finding a jumbled confusion of pornographic images. Most of them were fairly harmless, but he chuckled as he found a few he could utilize. As Weasley pushed the witch down on the bed, creeping up on top of her and straddling her hips while Vanishing his trousers, Voldemort made his move. With a nasty smile, he took control, making the young wizard lose _all_ of his social inhibitions, forcing him to tell her his most perverted fantasies.

Weasley started blabbering, damning himself, as he pumped his medium-sized cock with his fist, kneading her breast with his other hand:

"Gods, 'Mione, I want you to do so much with me, to try so many things. First, you will command me to lick your arse, and then you'll order me to fuck your arse. You'll boss me around, won't you, and maybe you could force me to watch you with another wizard, commanding me to lick his come out of your arse. Or you could tie me up, fuck my arse with a strap-on, while the other wizard fucks you hard in your tight little hole. How about that, having two wizards at your command? What about Harry? I'm sure he'd love to have a go at you, you could even let us fuck both your holes at the same time…"

Quick as lightning, Weasley was propelled backwards, falling on his arse on the floor with the bang of a shouted " _Reducto!"_ from Granger. Voldemort saw to his delight that his little, pretty witch was shrieking in fury, her hair emitting red sparks again, zinging the bed clothes with a hissing sound: "What the hell, Ronald Bilius Weasley?! Did you think I want to join in your fantasy of sharing me with Harry? _Harry_ , of all people? He's like my brother, Ron, not someone I want in my arse! And speaking of that, you suddenly want me to fuck your arse with a strap-on? How's that for a romantic reunion? Sometimes, Ron, I swear you're so bloody stupid I'm amazed you're able to tie your shoelaces! At least now I know I'm doing the right thing. Because make no mistake, Ronald, this time we're through! Go fuck yourself, Ron, or pay a whore to perform your arse fantasies!"

She climbed down from the bed, pointing her wand at the flabbergasted Weasley, shooting a hex at him. Voldemort winced, almost feeling sympathy with Weasley, as the witch obviously had followed the time-honoured tradition for angry witches by _Shrinking_ her ex-lover's cock to the bare minimum. Weasley yelled in shock, as she gathered her clothes, stomped outside the room before running to the bathroom.

Voldemort ran after her, barely getting inside before she locked the door.

She stood in the middle of the room, chest heaving, while tears ran in rivulets down her cheeks. She lifted her wand to run a bath, standing still, muttering to herself: "Gods, maybe this was a good thing. I had no idea that he… How stupid, fucking idiotic… Merlin, I should have hexed him even worse, I should have _Vanished_ the damned thing…" Drying her tears as she continued to mutter under her breath, she climbed into the now steaming tub, sinking down below the bubbles.

Still, she sniffled softly, but Voldemort stared at her, mesmerized by those pert nipples, now half-way covered in foam. His cock literally ached, and his slow palming of his cock wasn't helping. _He wanted her so badly._

Slipping into her unsuspecting mind, he spun her back to the fantasy he had projected at her at the Burrow last week. He was amazed how quickly she responded, and with an embarrassed laugh, the scowl faded from her face. Soon, she was writhing slowly in the water, one hand caressing her breast, while the other one slipped between her legs, rubbing her sex slowly.

He opened his trouser, still Silenced, and fisted his weeping cock slowly, wishing that the foam hadn't covered so much of her quim. Moving closer to stand at the edge of her tub, he could smell her though, a sweet smell of arousal mingling with the rose-scented bathwater. Then she arched up, and he caught a glance of her pink, wet pussy lips, and her fingers teasing her clit. She plied her lips open, circling that little nub, and then she flitted a finger to her entrance, fingering it, before returning to her clit.

The sight made him instantly even harder, and he could feel his orgasm approaching. His cock swelled in his hands, the head now an angry, red colour, and then the moaning, naked witch came undone, gasping, panting, making waves slosh around her in the tub by her vigorous movements. As she whispered his name – "Tom!" – he came, bucking into his hand, shooting his load out in her bathwater, adding a milky colour to the foamy water.

The witch laid her head back on the edge, chuckling happily and quietly to herself, as she relaxed into the water. "I needed that," she whispered, "I really did."

Breathing hard, he felt lucky indeed that she hadn't noticed the splash of his seed into the water, but with all the noise she had made herself, it was easy to miss.

He did wonder if Granger was on a Contraceptive Potion. _There was no way he could cast the Contraceptive Charm on her now, she would be suspicious indeed if the water flashed up in violet for five seconds. A smart girl like her would probably have taken the potion, especially when she had been expecting to have sex. He could find out from her mind, but there was no hurry. He could deal with this later, making sure there weren't to be any more brats for the time being. There was no rush, not at all. No need to reveal himself and Obliviate the girl for the moment._

He realized he might be a little giddy after his orgasm, but he felt fairly certain that Granger would have things in hand. _Then again, he rather enjoyed the fact that Granger now was bathing in his come._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who think Ron is an idiot, I agree. Then again, he is being set up, poor guy.
> 
> As you probably guessed, I hold not love for the Malfoys (though, Jason Isaac is unreasonably handsome as Lucius).


	10. Road Trip With Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm suggesting I'm not really sure who you are," Dumbledore's portrait said curtly. "And I am stating that you are a very seasoned practitioner of Dark Magic."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Smut arrives. Finally. *grins* 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!

On Monday morning, breakfast was awkward. Apparently, Ron Weasley had left for St. Mungo's late Sunday evening, cursing and yelling, clutching his Shrunken bits pitifully, to his sister's and Potter's great shock.

Now, both watched Granger nervously and carefully, and she was hugging her mug of strong tea, face like a thundercloud, not meeting anyone's eyes. No one dared to say anything, and he quite relished the palpable tension – it was rolling on his taste buds, almost like a savoury sweet. _Fear, pain, anger and uneasiness, it was such a lovely cocktail of emotions._

He hid his smile into his own mug, taking a deep sip of his black, fragrant tea - _a very good blend, suggested by his Viking barista_ \- as the newspaper owls came pecking at the kitchen window, claws scraping at the glazing bars. Potter's decrepit, old House-elf hobbled up to the window, letting the owls in with a flurry of feathers and soft hoots. His delivery owl was a pretty, white owl this morning, and it carefully nipped a piece of toast from his hand as he put the Knut in its pouch, while Granger had gotten an overlarge, grouchy barn owl. It landed with a screech on her bacon, taking two rashers in its talons, glaring at her with large, yellow eyes until she paid it with a fierce scowl on her face, before it took off.

The paper had a full coverage of the ball, and on the front page, he saw himself dancing with Granger, her resting her head against his chest with a look of bliss on her face. _He rather thought they made a dashing couple._

Granger was staring at her own newspaper, and her mouth became a thin line. Potter darted anxious glances from Granger, to Voldemort and to his sister. No one said anything. The only sound was the old House-elf humming softly to himself in his cupboard lair.

He picked up the paper, and read the piece. It was a rather slanderous story about how Granger always went for a high profile wizard, being a veritable gold digger, and the author speculated that since he had arrived on the scene, Golden Boy Weasley wasn't good enough for Golden Girl Granger. Instead, she had set her sights on the Dark Prince. He rolled his eyes at the absurdity of the name. _He was no prince, if anything, he was a king. Oh, well, they would learn, sooner or later._

After a few minutes, Granger banged her fist into the kitchen table, hissing: "I know it's her, though there's another journalist with the byline."

"Probably," Potter said carefully, like he was trying not to agitate her further.

"Hermione," Ginny said pleadingly, "you know how they are, don't let it get to you. Just … forget about it."

"I would, if it wasn't for the fact that I'm sure Skeeter is behind it all. I can tell she has written this, and she's trying to wriggle out of our deal by not signing the article."

He blinked. _Skeeter had interviewed him several times now, and he had found her rather obnoxious. This, however, seemed like there was something more. And ... a deal?_

"You have a deal with this Skeeter woman?" he asked, looking at Granger with curiosity.

"Yes," she grumbled. "I haven't told the Ministry about her being an illegal animagus, and in return she's not to write stories on me, Harry or…", she stopped, letting Ron Weasley's name hang unspoken. Ginny Weasley winced a little, looking away from Granger.

"Oh," he said, feeling even more intrigued. _A kind of blackmail? This was surprising. He hadn’t thought Granger had it in her._ Her blackmailing a reporter was obviously a secret and unpublished fact about the Golden Trio, even though their whole lives must have been scrutinized, published and printed by now. Still, it was sensible to keep such things quiet, and he almost nodded in agreement.

Then Potter said, forcing a laugh: "Mind, Skeeter had to spend an entire summer in Hermione's jar as a beetle for this deal to go through. No wonder she’s trying to get out of it."

His eyebrows shot to the roof, and he looked at Granger with a newfound respect. "You kept her in a _jar_ during an entire summer?"

"I did," she said, looking both ashamed and a little proud at the same time. "I captured her in her beetle form, and yes, she sat in my jar all summer. In the end, she was frantic, and I made my terms before letting her out. Then we made the deal."

He let out a breath, not succeeding in holding back his grin. "That's, that's …"

"I know, it's awful," Granger said with downcast eyes, but he interrupted her again:

"No, I mean that's … bloody … _imaginative_!"

At that, Granger looked up to him, and then she grinned too, her pride finally winning through. "It was, wasn't it? I fed her with grass and gave her droplets of water, so I don't think she was harmed physically. She was really shaken, though, when she came out, thinking that I had planned to keep her as a beetle for an infinite amount of time."

_Now he knew Granger would indeed have done very well in Slytherin. This was … an insidious, fantastic piece of blackmail, with just the right level of cruelty_ . It most certainly didn't happen often, but right now, Voldemort was **_impressed_**.

Xxxx

Granger blushed a little as she put her arms around him in the back alley, just outside 12 Grimmauld Place. She was Apparating them to Hogwarts, and he still had to Side-Along, because he wasn't supposed to know where the school was situated. Though, he had to say it felt much better to be pressed close to Granger’s soft body than the hard planes of Potter.

"Allow me," he murmured, doing the sweeping arch of his _Stabilias_ spell, spinning Granger in his arms.

She laughed, and then the sharp _Crack!_ of her Apparition reverberated through him, squeezing them through the tube of space, spitting them out in a clearing, just outside the grounds.

He felt his heart fill with joy at seeing the castle in the distance. _Hogwarts, the place where he belonged. His home, his childhood paradise._ To be kicked out by Dippet, then denied by Dumbledore had felt like a fall from grace, the gates of paradise slamming shut behind him. _And now, he was back, while they were long dead and gone. He had won._

Feeling elated, he breathed in the fresh, Scottish air, taking in the mist and the light rain, the green, vibrant scent from the trees in the Forbidden Forest with a sense of wonder. He saw an answering grin on Granger's face, as she looked towards the castle. Schooling his face, getting back into character, he said softly to her: "It's so beautiful here."

She looked up at him, and only then, he discovered that he still had his arms tightly wound around her, and that she was embracing him as well. Blushing, she stepped hastily back, answering: "Yes, it is."

They both stared at each other for a while, before he grinned playfully at her. Bumping into her arm deliberately, he took her hand decisively, starting the trek to the gates.

Her hand was very small, warm and dry, and his hand totally engulfed hers. Excitement thrummed through him. _Back at Hogwarts, on his way to open the Chamber, even though it was for the benefit of snot-faced little brats, a beautiful witch in tow that belonged to him, like a secret weapon, even though she wasn't aware of it. Indeed, it was a good day for Lord Voldemort._

At the gates, they were met by the resident hulking half-giant, who bellowed: "Hermione! Good ter see yeh!" before embracing her into a bearhug.

She laughed, saying: "Hagrid, it's so good to see you too. How are you?"

"Much the same, Hermione, more peaceful, thou'," and at that, they both laughed hard.

Finally, the bearded man looked down at Voldemort, extending his hand with a nervous twitch to his bushy eyebrows: "Nice ter meet yeh, too, Mr. Riddle."

Hagrid looked much the same as he had done as a young boy, except for the wild beard. And, he was even taller than he had been. Voldemort was by no means used to people being taller than himself, after all, he was a _fucking six feet five_ , but then again, Hagrid wasn't a wizard, he was a half-being. _There was no reason to compare himself unfavourably to a mere being._

He was curious though, how Hagrid would react to him, being one of very few people who knew him from his youth. It was strangely fitting too, that Hagrid should be here when he reopened the Chamber. _It almost made him snigger._

"Hello, Mr. Hagrid," he said with a smile. "Please call me Tom. Just Tom, if you will."

"Tom…" the oaf said, tasting the name on his tongue, before shaking his head. "Yeh're looking an awful lot like him, yeh know."

He nodded, letting his smile fade like he was saddened. "I know," he said quietly. "People keep telling me that. Not much I can do about it, though. I hope you won't hold it against me."

"Not jus' in looks," Hagrid continued, frowning, "bu' the way yeh speak, it's yer voice, I reckon."

"I wouldn't know," he said, shrugging politely. "I've never met the man in my life." _Merlin, this was as expected, and Hagrid's Gryffindor background shone through, blurting out everything to everyone. How come they never understood that knowledge is power? Silly things, they were._

"No, o' course," Hagrid said quickly, "jus' sayin'. I'm sure yeh're a fine lad. No fault o' yer own tha' yer ol' man was a nutter."

At that, he almost laughed out loud. _It was preposterous, calling Lord Voldemort a "fine lad," and he was sure no one had done so since his days at school. As for a nutter, well, he quite agreed. The snake-faced him had been mad, utterly crazy._

Hagrid had been vital in bringing his other self down. Wondering idly if this merited some kind of punishment at a later date, he found that he couldn't make himself care. A quick assessment told him that Hagrid was still fairly harmless. _Maybe he should be magnanimous. He had, to be fair, already destroyed Hagrid's life before. Now, he had bigger fish to fry._

Lips twitching, he said: "Thanks, I'm looking forward to getting to know you."

Granger tugged at his arm, and they waved goodbye to Hagrid.

He asked: "Are there more people here that knew him? I mean, am I going to be swamped with comments on how I look compared to him?"

"I don't know," she said slowly. "The Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall, might have known him, though she's about ten years younger than him. And, well, there's Professor Slughorn." She gave him a wary glance, and inwardly, he cringed.

_Slughorn, that bothersome, dreary old man, still here? Hadn't they managed to get a new Potion teacher since the war? That fucking traitor who had betrayed his other self for years, Snape, had held the post for a long time, before going on to Defense and then acting as his puppet Headmaster. In the end, he had himself killed. Surely Snape’s rumoured surly disposition couldn't have scared away a generation from the damned subject. There HAD to be people more suited for teaching than Slughorn._

"I'd better steel myself, then," he muttered, meaning it literally. _At least, Slughorn was a Slytherin. He might have too much sense to comment. Still, he almost snorted, Slughorn would be prone to actually name-drop his acquaintance with his "father" to him._

Granger squeezed his arm, and together, they entered the courtyard. Inside, he felt like he was finally home, the castle walls embracing him, welcoming him, and his heart swelling with an unfamiliar, strong feeling, threatening to smother his mind, making his throat constrict. _He had to admit defeat: He cared for Hogwarts. At least, it was a place, not a person._

Students sat outside on the stone benches, gathered in groups, and at the sight of him and Granger, whispering, eager pointing and staring broke out:

_"Look, there's You-Know-Who's son, and Granger!"_ _  
_ _  
"Why are they here?" _

_"Are they together? Did you see the Prophet? What about Ron Weasley? I thought she was with him?"_

_"Morgana, he's hot! He's fucking sexy!"_

_"Granger is so cool, did you know she has the fourth best scores Hogwarts has ever seen?"_ _  
_ _“She’s hot too, those photos… did you see her tits in that dress?”_

_"He's supposed to be so powerful, just like You-Know-Who!"_

_"Say his name, it's not dangerous anymore! Say his name, you coward! See? Voldemort. I say it all the time."_

_“Sweet Merlin, I wish he was a teacher. I want to look at him every single day!”_

Granger ducked her head, clearly not enjoying the attention, but he almost preened. Having everyone's attention was just … delicious.

Entering the castle proper, he stopped, inhaled deeply, feeling the familiar smell of stone, dust, old wooden rafters and _home_ fill his lungs. Everything looked much the same as it had, and he felt his mouth tugging upward. _He couldn’t help it, flashes from his school years scuttled through his brains, as he stared at the oh-so-familiar paintings on the walls, the suits of armour standing guard._

"Come on," Granger said softly. "We're supposed to meet the Headmistress in ten minutes, and it's a long walk through the corridors to the Head’s office."

Xxxx

The Head's office had gone through some radical changes, though. Gone were Dippet's severe leather chairs, lacquered tables and antique maps of the wizarding world, and in their place, there was an inordinately amount of all things tartan. He was quite sure that he had never met this McGonagall-woman before, but he couldn't rule out that his other self had met her sometime after 1955.

The wiry old witch hugged Granger, in a way that belied her seemingly stiff upper lip-formality, and she shook his hand firmly.

"Welcome," she said. "I'm so pleased you agreed to try this. I'm sure the Chamber would be a nice acquisition for us, giving the students an opportunity to use it as a practise hall for Defense studies."

"I'd be happy to try," he said, giving the old witch a tentative smile, "but I'm not sure I'll succeed. I have to say, this is … a little awkward for me, because it really cements the fact that I have a connection to him. I hope this won't make people become afraid and apprehensive."

"Nonsense," the Headmistress said briskly, while snapping her fingers. A House-Elf emerged with tea and biscuits, happily setting up the tea service.

"People will see that you're doing this to help," she continued. "I don't see why they should be scared."

He shrugged. "As I understand, this Heir of Slytherin business isn't exactly something that'll do wonders for my reputation."

She shook her head: "I must impress upon you, Mr. Riddle, this is valuable help for us. I will _not_ hesitate to tell the _right_ people so."

"Thanks," he said sincerely, "I appreciate that." After all, that was the very reason he'd do something as asinine as opening Slytherin's Chamber for the dirty masses. _Getting lots of positive PR was a requirement for taking over as Minister in due time. He was counting on the Headmistress to bolster his efforts._

Sipping at his tea, he let his eyes roam the office. From the row of the previous Headmaster portraits on the wall, he could see Dumbledore scowl at him, while Dippet was waving happily. 

Another dark-haired, sour-faced fellow was scrutinizing him, tapping his lip with a finger. _That had to be the traitor, Snape. His temper flared momentarily, thinking about how that sallow, glowering fellow had deceived his own powers of Legilimency, making a fool out of himself, but he forced the burning licks of anger down. His other self had gotten his revenge, by killing the man brutally. There was no valid reason for incinerating his portrait, at least not without questions and repercussions._

Concentrating on his tea instead, noting it was quite nice, up to the usual Hogwarts’ standard, he listened in to Granger and the Headmistress catching up.

Suddenly Dumbledore broke in, voice surprisingly strong for a portrait: "Minerva, I can't sit still to watch this. There is something wrong with this young man. He's so much like Tom Riddle, it's uncanny."

A shocked silence fell over the room, and he gently sat his cup on the saucer with a small clink. Granger was chewing her lip, frowning at Dumbledore, while McGonagall pursed her thin lips.

"Albus, what _are_ you suggesting?" she said finally, after a long pause.

"I'm not sure, but this is no ordinary young wizard," Dumbledore said, blue eyes stern and unforgiving. "Can't you feel it? He's positively reeking of Dark Magic!"

Voldemort sighed. _He should have guessed it would come to this._ Rising from his chair, he moved closer to the portrait wall.

"I don't understand," he said, feigning confusion. "Do you suggest there's something wrong with me?"

"I'm suggesting I'm not really sure who you are," Dumbledore said curtly. "And I _am_ stating that you are a _very_ seasoned practitioner of Dark Magic."

Shaking his head, he looked at Dumbledore with an open, earnest expression: "I'm Tom Marvolo Voldemort Riddle, born to Tom Marvolo Riddle, known as Lord Voldemort and the Muggle-born witch Ileana Caragiale in the year 1973. My mother and I might have been practising some Dark Magic on the run to defend ourselves, but I'm certainly no Dark wizard. It's all about the intention, don't you think? There's a moral demarcation line between Dark Magic used to attack and the very same spells used for defending." 

_There, the old codger couldn't disagree with him. After all, that was what he had preached his whole life, wasn't it?_

He carefully hid the glittering triumph from his eyes, as he met the flash of anger in the old man's eyes.

Dumbledore shook his head, and vanished from his portrait to enter the sour-faced man's picture. Touching the man's arm, he said:

"Severus, what do you think? Could he be…?"

Voldemort almost swallowed. _Trust Dumbledore to see to the heart of things, with that infuriating ability of his not to be convinced by whatever show Voldemort had tried to put on._

The dark-haired man shrugged, staring hard at him, his eyes black, unblinking and demanding. Voldemort could easily see why this man had been a hated teacher, with such a maddening glare. But on the inside, Voldemort told himself smugly: _He tricked you, now you trick him._

After a minute, the dark, dead Headmaster shook his head, saying calmly to Dumbledore in a very deep voice: "I cannot say. He is very different from the Dark Lord I knew from the seventies, though that's not to say there is or isn't something wrong with him. Looks can be deceiving, Albus, and we are all reasonably certain that the man is well and truly dead. This young man simply _cannot_ be him. It would defy all logic and laws of magic as we know it."

Headmaster Dippet chirped: "Yes Albus, don't go off on a tangent again. I grant you, this young man looks very much like the young Tom Riddle, but it is not uncommon for a son to look like his father. Truly, this young man over there looks just like Tom, and has inherited his magical prowess. Why can't you rejoice with us, Albus? Finally, Tom's considerable talents will not go to waste like we all thought it had?"

Voldemort almost smiled, but kept his face schooled into a serious expression. _Dippet had always been one of his staunchest supporters while he was still at school. Good to see he came through for him, once again._

McGonagall said decisively, with a frown on her stern face: "Albus, you're chasing shadows again. This is uncalled for, and you are insulting our guest. If you cannot keep still, I'll be forced to Silence you again."

Dumbledore vanished from the portraits on the wall, and Voldemort could see several of the portraits rolling their eyes, like Dumbledore had acted like a nuisance _often_.

"He's sulking again," the Headmistress said, shaking her head. "The fact remains, he doesn't like being a portrait. Albus wants to act, to make a difference like he did when he was living, and sometimes, he has trouble accepting his role as an advisory portrait."

Granger mumbled: "Why am I not surprised…", with a small, sarcastic eye roll. He got the distinct impression she might be somewhat critical to the old coot. _No wonder, the way the man had manipulated her and her friends._ Though, he had come to appreciate the small, cruel streak in Granger's mind.

Voldemort looked at Dippet, then at Snape, nodding slightly, faking a hurt and confused expression. He said slowly, earnestly: "I hope you all will see past my looks, judging me by my actions instead."

Dippet enthused: "Of course, m' boy, of course. Don't you agree, Severus?"

The dark man made a small, arrogant toss of his head, saying: "We must hope, you will make … good … decisions, then."

Voldemort turned his back on the portrait wall, biting his tongue to keep his angry retort back, before he sat down with the witches again. Again, he began to fiddle with his tea, seeing the Headmaster portraits whisper among themselves, shaking their heads at Dumbledore's empty frame.

Xxxx

On their way down to the Chamber, walking with a small group of teachers, he overheard the Headmistress saying quietly to Granger as they trailed slightly behind the rest:

"So this is how it is, then. Maybe it's all for the best, Miss Granger. I never saw you as compatible with young Mr. Weasley. He might have been happy, but you would never be."

Granger's response was equally low: "It can't turn out any worse than Ron. Besides, there isn't anything as of yet."

"Please!" the older witch scoffed. "The tension between the two of you is so thick, you could cut it with a knife. Besides, my dear, you are not a very good liar."

He barely kept his smirk from showing, as he pretended to listen respectfully to this year's Defense teacher, a middle-aged Auror named Conrad Martyn. 

To his surprise, the curse his other self had cast on the position in the early seventies was still in effect. The result was a Ministerial decree, commanding every Auror to serve half a year as Defense teacher. In that way, no one died. _He rather thought that to be a shame. Maybe if he could tweak the curse just a little to make death a certainty…_

No, he almost shook his head, it was too much of a risk. Even the Ministry, stupid as they were, would think it suspicious if the properties of the curse suddenly altered. Come to think of it, it had to be a fine piece of spellwork, if neither Dumbledore nor the Ministry had managed to undo it in thirty years. He gave himself a mental pat on his shoulder, wondering if his other self had done anything else worthy of note. _Probably not, being crazy as a bat_ , he thought derisively.

Thankfully, Slughorn wasn't present, claiming a stomach ache. Instead, his apprentice, a pretty Dutch blonde in her early twenties, was tagging along, giving him small, appraising smiles. He was willing to bet she took the full workload of teaching, marking and brewing, leaving Slughorn to his Crystallised Pineapple treats. 

At any other time, he would have loved to fuck her, but right now, Granger was his sole objective, though he loved the attention, surreptitiously checking out the Apprentice's breasts. _Not as good as Granger's,_ he noted.

In the girls' bathroom, the small group clustered together, making room for him in front of the sink. It looked just like in the forties, and he silently wondered why the old coot – _no, coots in plural, both Dippet, Dumbledore, Snape and now McGonagall_ – hadn't gotten the idea to improve the plumbing. This only showed that those placed in the Head's position had no sense of practical improvements. The room smelled awful too, like old, staid water, crumbling mortar and deep, dank cellars. 

Predictably, that stupid ghost of the Mudblood girl showed up, beaming at him. "Oh hello," she said dreamily in a sing-song voice, fiddling with a lock of her hair, "You're back!"

He almost rolled his eyes. "You mistake me for my father," he said politely.

The ghost narrowed her eyes at him, and he realized she wasn't about to believe him at face value. Quickly, he deliberately insulted her by saying enthusiastically with a happy grin: "You must be Moaning Myrtle, the sad u-bend-ghost! I've read about you. Is it true you stay here sulking, to mourn your life, never venturing out your stalls, seeking the safety you never had in life by remaining in your death-place?"

The ghost sobbed, taking a swipe at him – going through him with an icy shudder – before disappearing into a stall, entering the u-bend with a loud splash, spilling water, making it pool out from the stall. _Good. Now she'd be sulking in her toilet for the duration of his visit. At least, she wouldn’t be talking._

Granger looked at him with surprise, like she couldn't believe him to be this insensitive towards the ghost. _He almost laughed out loud. If she knew how "insensitive" he really was, she'd be running. Screaming._

The tiny Charms Professor, Filius Flitwick, and the Potions Apprentice, Grimelda Narceus, stepped gingerly away from the flooding toilet to avoid threading in the pool, a disgusted look on their faces, as they chattered quietly. He could hear their whispers:

"It's a shame, really, that ghost…"

"Should have been Banished, bathroom useless for close to sixty years…"

Voldemort shut their voices out, concentrating on what he was about to do, or more correctly, on the show he was about to perform. He stood alone in front of the row of sinks, the rest of the people in a half-circle around him.

The curious mix of elation at being the centre of attention, but also apprehension for speaking Parseltongue in front of all these people coursed through him. _No one will understand_ , he reassured himself, _they will not find out. My secret is safe as always. Parseltongue can't be translated, and there are no other Parseltongues here._

Hissing at the sink, he commanded: "Open. Let the Chamber once again open for the Heir."

A disembodied voice hissed back: "The heir is dead. Long live the rightful Heir, returned to life once more."

A clanking sound came from the pipes, and the gaping hole of the opening became visible as the sink swivelled and lifted away from its position. A gasp came from the crowd around him, and he gritted his teeth, steeling himself for the next order: "It is the will of the Heir that the Chamber remains open, until the Heir says otherwise."

The voice replied: "The Heir is sovereign. The Chamber will obey."

The grating sound from the opening came to a halt, the opening shimmered for a moment, before solidifying into a dark, gaping maw.

He turned to the Headmistress: "It is done."

Xxxx

The corridor leading to the Chamber was looking even more in shambles than he remembered, though the bones littered on the ground were still crunching under his feet with a comforting sound. There were crumbling stones all around them, most likely after the mess Potter, Weasley and Lockhart had created with the explosion from the Memory Charm gone wrong. 

The giant, sad shedded skin of his basilisk was sagging in the corridor as well. The snake had been useful, no wonder his other self had tried to breed another at Riddle Manor. _Though, having a basilisk around without any safe way to contain it, like the Chamber, was a truly mad and ridiculous idea. A basilisk was no pet._

He shook his head, as he walked up to the giant, ornamented doors to the Chamber proper. _Imagine, turning a corner in your house and inadvertently staring a basilisk in its eyes, meeting certain death_. Shuddering with the reckless, careless stupidity of it, he snarled to the doors: "Open for the Heir!"

As the door creaked open, he felt Granger take his hand, looking worriedly at him.

"I'm sorry you have to do this," she whispered. "I know it must be hard, acknowledging your blood like this."

Taking a deep breath through his nose – _she was so far off the mark and yet so close, because his blood clearly told him that allowing little brats in here was an abomination_ – he merely stroked her hand, like he was preoccupied.

As the Chamber became visible, he heard a collective whisper of "ooooh" from the teachers behind him.

"This is marvellous!" the Headmistress breathed out. "The students will love this. We're so thankful, Mr. Riddle. You have given Hogwarts a priceless gift today."

"Don't mention it," he said wryly, being painfully aware that Salazar Slytherin probably would have disinherited him on the spot for doing something asinine like this. _Little Mudbloods practising duelling in his halls – the man would be rotating in his grave. Still, Slytherin was dead, and Voldemort was alive. He could do as he damned well pleased with his heritage, and this was a means to an end, like everything else._

The teachers were stumbling about, gawking, and the pretty Potions Apprentice Narceus was squeaking excitedly by the giant corpse of the basilisk, enthusing on how she could utilize both venom, rotting flesh and skin as well as the skeleton as ingredients. He almost huffed, the basilisk would fetch a fortune on the black ingredients market, and the greedy gleam in the Apprentice's eyes showed him that she was very much aware of that fact. If anyone should profit from it, and he unfortunately wasn't in a position to claim the money, it should be Hogwarts itself.

Inching over to the prudish Headmistress, he whispered her a few choice words on how to improve the school's finances. Her beady, blue eyes glittered, and she snapped at Narceus: "We'll discuss how to sell this on the market. The basilisk belongs to Hogwarts, and will be an asset to our economy."

Narceus pouted, but gave him a long, smouldering look, giving him a tingle of anticipation. _He had never fucked a Hogwarts teacher. She could have done in a pinch, though she still was only an Apprentice._ The thought of bending this pretty slip of a witch over the desk in Slughorn's classroom made him instantly hard. But then his gaze inevitably fell to Granger, and he felt his lips curved wickedly. _There was a thing or two he'd enjoy doing while they still were here._

Granger looked up to him, before she whispered: "I'll go and talk to the House-elves now."

"Alright," he replied, his eyes caressing her. "I would love to see the library afterwards. Would you meet me there?"

Xxxx

He was lounging in the Restricted Section, a small, happy smile on his face. It looked exactly like it had in the forties. The very same shelves, the rare books and tomes, the smell of old parchment, leather, dry dust, oiled wood and ink – _yes, just like home. His home_. Taking a deep breath and leaning his head back against a shelf, he closed his eyes, letting the feeling of comfort, the sense of the unique belonging inherent to Hogwarts wash over him.

The Headmistress, that strict, Scottish woman, had invited him back to lecture the students on his travels. He actually looked forward to that, because teaching was, in his opinion, a performance to convince, engage and - _of course_ – recruit. This time, his aim would be persuading the brats to believe that Tom Riddle was a wizard cut out for ruling them all. He was not about to openly recruit obedient followers. _This time, the game was a little more subtle than that. And he would succeed._

He rummaged through the shelves, pulling out dusty tomes for a quick scan, smiling at old favourites, and picking out a couple of interesting, new books that hadn't been published when he left the fifties, sitting down on a bench to read as much as he could.

After a long, enjoyable wait, Granger slinked into the library, and his eyes fell on her luscious form as she walked up to him, her tits bouncing a little by her brisk steps.

"Did you recruit your elf?" he said with a genial smile.

"Yes, eventually," she said, biting that plump, bottom lip. "What are you reading?"

She was clearly trying to avert the line of questioning, proving that she had had some difficulties with the House-elves, but due to his unduly good mood, he indulged her and let the question drop. "This is an unabridged version of Searing Souls: A Treatise on Mind Magic and the Powers of Scouring the Soul," he said happily.

The book was a fairly new one, written in 1976 by an Irish scholar by the name Declan Gaughan, and it outlined a fascinating theory on how the Legilimens could manipulate a powerful Occlumens and vice versa, and he really, really relished the feeling of learning something new.

"Interesting," she said, looking at the book with curiosity. "Did you know that one of the portraits upstairs, the deceased Headmaster Snape, was such an accomplished Occlumens, he actually deceived Voldemort for years? Maybe he had read this book."

"Maybe," he said non-committedly, "that was the sour, dark-haired fellow, right?" He enjoyed the Hogwarts Library so much, that not even the shortcomings of his old, stupid self, being tricked by that fucking traitor, could faze him.

"Yes," she said with a smile, before adding: "He wasn't exactly cheerful when he was alive either, poor man."

_In his opinion, the traitor had it coming. If Snape had managed to land himself in an entire lifetime of unhappiness, well, as far as Voldemort was concerned, he couldn't care less._

Looking up at Granger, he took in her appearance. She wore a tight, grey silk shirt, fitted to her waist and chest, showing off her curves in a very nice way, and a tight, black skirt underneath her black work robes. She was sexy, though she still oozed the bright-eyed, innocent young witch that she was.

_Oh wait, innocent? Her face was a little flushed, and that look in her eyes – that glint – oh my. Hermione Granger wanted him to fuck her in the library, he could tell. Not so innocent after all, eh? How fitting, that their desire's coincided, then._

Feeling his trousers tighten as blood rushed to his cock, he put down the book, patting the bench beside him.

"Why don't you sit?" he said silkily. She sat down gingerly beside him, peering at him between the locks of her unruly hair. He slid his arm behind her, not touching her hips, and still, she shivered slightly, her breathing becoming more rapid.

Voldemort moved closer, splaying his fingers across the small of her back, making the little witch give a soft, almost inaudible sigh by the touch.

He used his other hand to grip her chin, tilting her head up to him. Looking at her mouth, lowering his head, he heard a small whimper, and she gasped into his mouth as their lips met. The kiss started slowly, but escalated quickly, driving them into a frenzy of battling tongues, moving lips, small nibbles, moans and sighs. He grabbed her hair, pulling her head back, and moved across her chin to her throat.

A small whine came from her mouth, with a sharp intake of breath, and she whispered: "We shouldn't, Tom."

"You're right, we really shouldn't," he murmured, "but we could." He proceeded to cast a very strong Notice-me-not, and she gasped, eyes wide.

"That has got to be the strongest version I've ever seen," she whispered, "from this side, it looks like a shimmering wall of heat."

"From the outside, it'll seem like we don't exist," he said into her ear, his teeth nipping at her earlobe. "But we know the truth. Students and teachers alike could pass within a meter, and they would never know we're here. No sounds, no sight."

She looked at him, a fierce blush rising in her cheeks, and he smiled at her, lazily, predatorily, as he let his eyes run over her form. One hand trailed slowly to the hem of her skirt, lifting it, and his hand moved slowly upwards, tickling the insides of her thighs. Her eyes rolled back, and he fisted the other hand in her hair again, claiming her mouth again, bruising her lips with his kiss.

There, his fingers had reached the apex of her thighs. _She was soaked, he could feel it_. Slowly, he petted her, feeling the contours of her pussy with his fingers through her silken knickers and tights, and she twitched in his arms, gasping with a small sob.

"You love this," he murmured into her hair, "you want me to touch you, don't you?"

She nodded, unable to say a word, as his hand caressed her, and his mouth moved along her jawline, making her shudder as he licked a spot underneath her earlobe.

His hand became more insistent, her knickers dampening with moisture, and she made whimpering little noises in his ear. His cock was throbbing, painfully erect inside his trousers, and he made a split-second decision. He would have to secure her firmly – giving her something Weasley wouldn't have managed: _A world-class orgasm in a library._

Pinning her in place with his arms on each side of her, he knelt in front of her, bunching up her skirt over her thighs. Looking her in the eyes, seeing her half-open mouth and pink, flushed cheeks, he Divested her of her tights and knickers, making them fold up nicely in a pile beside her.

She blinked, feeling the cold air on her bare legs, and he smiled at her, before shoving her knees apart and diving in with his head.

She smelled good, deliciously lust-filled, and he could see her sex glisten. His tongue darted out, meeting her slit, and she made a shuddering, deep breath, head falling back and her eyes closing. His tongue burrowed into her folds, parting her pussy, and he laid out broad swipes, moving from the hard, distended little nub in front and back to her wet, little hole.

Her whimpers became more high-pitched and frequent, and he twirled his tongue around that hard clit, one hand creeping up underneath to push a finger in her, pumping her tight hole slowly, curling his finger, moving through that soft, silky wetness inside her. Tremors ran though her pussy, and she thrust her hips to make his fingers rub her wet clit harder. Gasping, she tugged his hair, mumbling incoherently: "Oh gods, Tom, oh Merlin, this is so good, of please, let me come, this is wonderful…"

And then, with a series of hard, pumping movements with his fingers, flitting his tongue over her clit rapidly, she came apart, right there in the library, screaming his name, gasping and shuddering, moaning mindlessly: "Tom, oh, Tom, oh, Tom…!"

His cock was rock-hard, twitching in his trousers, and he rose quickly, parting his robe, letting his trousers, belt and all fall to the floor with a thud. Then his cock was finally free, protruding into her face, pointing the red, swollen head at her mouth. _Smart girl_ , he thought with a sigh, as she caught the gist, wrapping her small hand around him, squeezing him into a groan, before her tongue lapped at his glistening precum at the tip.

Those soft lips opened, and he sank into her to sucking wet noises, her mouth was pulling at him, driving him towards the edge, her tongue rolling over his bulbous head, her hands inching him deeper into her mouth. As he hit the roof of her mouth, she gagged slightly, pulling him out again, and he thrust lightly back, while she sucked, rolled her tongue, sucked again, and rolled her tongue over his head in a speeding, delicious rhythm.

His grip on her hair had mussed it up, making it into a messy halo around her face, the rays of sunlight outlining golden streaks, and her eyes were closed as she sucked his cock with an expression of rapture. _She enjoyed it, he was sure. This was no act._

He grunted: "You're doing so well, witch, you look so good with my cock in your pretty, little mouth," and she blushed, smiling around his cock, making him jerk inside her mouth.

The very fact that he had licked her cunt in the Hogwarts library, now getting a stellar blow job himself, made him even more turned on. It was a lovely, dirty thought, this pretty, little witch dripping with her own juices on the library bench, with his big cock in her mouth, with people all around them, and no one was the wiser.

Much too quickly for his liking, he swelled up, hardening further, the familiar tingle down his spine starting, and then he thrust hard into her mouth, going over the edge with a shout, his balls lifting and contracting, spilling himself into her warm, wet willing mouth.

As she swallowed around his cock, her throat constricting and convulsing around him, all he could think of was: _Gods, she swallows too. Granger is perfect for my needs._


	11. To Court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rush of his full power tore through him, like he was letting up the floodgates, and his whole being tingled with the sensation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how does a sociopath do the awkward conversations after sex? Poor Tom, he's a bit out of his league… ;-)

The walk back to the Apparition point was odd. Usually, after fucking a witch, even in those rare cases where he'd keep them on a leash for a while because it suited his needs, he got bored, and the time frame was seldom more than a week, mostly two.

But Granger, she was to stay as a vital part of his plans. In this case, _he_ had to win her approval to make his plans work. _This was … unusual._ The witches usually vied for _his_ attention, not the other way around. _And he felt almost sickened by the thought of pursuing someone, anyone. It wasn't right._

Though, as they walked, Voldemort found to his relief that her company was still refreshing, still interesting – and there was still a tension between them, even after their oral exploration.

The relief was almost physical in nature, making his pulse slow, relaxing his mind. He had been worried that courting her for an extended period of time after he had claimed her, for months, maybe even a year, would be a chore indeed.

With Granger, he still felt curious about her, her mind, her knowledge – as well as her body. _Somehow, he thought it would be possible to stay curious for some time, exploring what it meant to be with Hermione Granger for a time._

Shaking his head to clear it from those strange thoughts, he thought it had to be because he hadn't fucked her properly yet. _It was the only, sensible explanation_ , he reasoned.

They had said their goodbyes to the Headmistress, who had given them an odd look, making Granger blush. _He_ knew that McGonagall merely had been notified of his "Notice-Me-Not" by the castle, but Granger obviously didn't. _She probably thought the Headmistress knew everything happening in the castle._ Well, he trusted the castle to keep his secrets like always, giving him extra leeway as the Heir of one of the founders.

Now, as soon as they were out of sight, he slung his arm around Granger, pushing her back against a giant oak, and kissed her again. Her arms came up around his neck, and she responded eagerly. Still, this kiss was slow, languid and exploring, their passion sated for a while. He grinned down at Granger as he came up for air, and she smiled back, looking so pretty in the slanting rays of the evening sun, catching golden strands in her hair, a rosy blush on her face.

"I want to continue this," he said to her, as softly as he could manage, putting the expression on his face that was his interpretation of how 'tenderness' would look. Continuing, he breathed out: "I want to know where this will lead us."

Inside, he felt a kind of quivering tension, like he was nervous about her answer. _So much of his planning was keyed to winning Granger over. He needed to play the role of a wizard courting his witch, and he had to do it well to make her truly fall for him. To others, she'd never be as convincing under the Imperius as she would be by herself._

No matter his previous experiences, she was so important to his success. He _had_ to secure Granger, to keep her happy and oblivious to his plans, making the brightest witch of her age so complacent that she wouldn't ask him any questions. And, preferably, doing it in a way that was tolerable to himself. _He was not about to present himself like a lovesick fool_ , he almost shuddered by the thought.

She swallowed, looking down for a moment, before she raised her beautiful, brown eyes to him. "Me too," she said, "but we'll need to take it a bit slow." Seeing his surprise, she explained: "You saw the Daily Prophet. I don't … want to prove them right, if you understand. Ron might be an idiot and our relationship has, as _everyone_ knows, been shaky for a long time, but for the sake of decency, I don't want this to look like I jump into the next relationship before the previous ended."

He stared at her _. What she suggested was only sensible._ He was in this to get good publicity, and being officially involved with Granger at this stage would only be to his detriment. She was completely right: many people who liked and admired Weasley would react badly. _They would have to go slow, like she said. It was the smart thing to do, it was cunning, even. So why did he feel a twinge of disappointment?_

Whatever it was, it must have shown on his face, because she gave him a rather naughty grin, and stood on her tip-toes to whisper, pulling his head down: "In public, I mean. _Not_ behind closed doors."

It went straight to his groin, and his cock lurched. He growled into her ear: "You little minx, you almost gave me a scare."

She giggled, her golden-brown eyes dancing with merriment. "I didn't know you were that easy to frighten."

He snorted: "I'm _not_."

"Are you sure? Because I think you might be." She cocked her head, scrutinizing him, as she tapped her lips playfully after issuing her challenge. At his incredulous expression, she almost doubled up, hooting with laughter.

He caught her up in a kiss again, mumbling: "I have to shut up that mouth of yours, I see."

The kiss deepened, and for a while, all he could feel was her soft curves pressed against him and her silken tongue meeting his. His neck began to ache, though, since he was more than a foot taller than her. Instead, he Levitated her to be level with him.

She squeaked, legs kicking, but he held her close to him, until she again melted into him. "Now, who's afraid?" he said, smirking at her, and she made a small grimace, before tugging at his hair, forcing him into a kiss again. For a while, the only sound was the soft, wet sound of their lips and small sighs. Then, a twig broke with a snap, and immediately, they both pulled apart, lifting their heads warily. He let her down quickly, and in a moment, both had wands out, on the alert, searching the area with their eyes.

A squirrel hopped out from the bushes, and they both laughed a little.

"At least we're both paranoid," she said with a smile. 

He grinned. _Paranoia was only sensible in the world where he had grown up. For someone who aimed to take control over the world, paranoia was even necessary._

“Yes, about that. Do you plan on talking to that journalist, the animagus, about her transgression? No matter how long we wait to go public, she'll still write those stories." he asked, curious as to what she'd do.

"I would, but it's a bit hard to catch her as a beetle. She's very careful when I'm around." She gnawed on her bottom lip, and he took in the sight of her kiss-swollen, bruised, plumped-up lips. _It suited her._ He resolved to kiss her _often_.

"I can help you with that," he offered. "There's a spell which will force animagi into their animal form. I can teach you the spell."

Her eyes widened, and she said, uncertainly: "That sounds rather dark."

"It can be," he shrugged. "But like I said in the Head's office, it's all about intent. You are going to use this to defend yourself, to make sure you aren't suffering from abuse, rumours and slander, right?"

"I suppose so," she said, still looking uncertain.

"Or I can perform it for you," he said, feeling generous. _Truth to tell, he was also curious as to what she'd do. He wanted to watch her interaction with the Skeeter woman. That little, cruel streak in her, he wanted to see it in action._

She mulled for a bit, before giving him a small smile. "You're right. Skeeter needs to stop writing – _again._ "

"For us," he said softly, "or else your reputation" _– and mine,_ he thought – "will suffer if we're to be together."

She nodded, swallowing, before her expression grew serious. "I have to warn you at the outset, though, I work a lot. As for tonight, I need to go over my presentation for a case for tomorrow morning. It's a complicated and demanding case, and I'll be in court from early morning until noon, I expect. I need to prepare properly. It's often like that, you see. Most nights, actually."

He nodded, saying: "I understand, and it's just what I expected from you. But a warning is fair, and you should know I work hard too. And not only on my duties as Office Head. I do research in my spare time, and I spend my time reading, experimenting, as well as working on spell creation." As an afterthought, he added: "I also hold myself to fairly strict routines of practising."

Granger looked relieved, and beamed at him. "Sounds like we understand each other, then. Work is important."

_He nodded. It was good to know she wouldn't expect him to be overly attentive. This too reduced the risk of him becoming bored. Yes, Granger would be tolerable indeed._

Xxxx

The Auror's open lunch duelling session on Tuesday was _packed,_ both with participants and with spectators.

Harry whispered as they walked into the room: "It was rumoured that you'd participate today. Usually, there aren't all that many." The loose, comfortable black silk robe swished around him, but he knew, he'd have to take it off before duelling started. _He was not about to give anyone any ideas of similarities with his snake-faced self, not even in his clothing. These people would see him duel in his shirtsleeves. Voldemort had, of course, chosen his shirt with care. It was form-fitting, to showcase his arms, shoulders and back, and in a deep charcoal colour. He looked good, if he had to say so himself._

The duelling was set in one of the larger Courtrooms on the lower levels, and the stone stands were filled with people. The smell of coffee, fragrant tea and Cauldron Cakes filled the room, and excited whispers went through the room as they entered, and people were leaning over the stone railings to see the two of them better. Potter muttered under his breath: "Better stick to your plan on not duelling me, Hermione or Ron. I can see the Daily Prophet's here in full force."

True enough, the Skeeter woman was sitting in the front row, her Quick Quotes Quill at the ready, and beside her, two photographers sat, fiddling with their cameras.

Voldemort nodded to Harry. He'd happily duel Weasley or even Granger, because there was absolutely no risk to him whatsoever. Potter, however, was another matter. There would be no freak accidents in this timeline, he had to make sure of that. _He was pleased, though, that his well-placed tip to some of his more gossiping staff members had paid off, both media-wise and audience-wise._

"Alright!" the Head of the Auror Office said, a beefy man by the name James Fawley, a neat little _Sonorous_ amplifying his voice as he walked out in the centre of the room. The audience stands were tiered around the room, making the middle of it a circular, empty space, perfect for duelling. "As always, I must remind all participants that normal duelling rules apply. We'll observe the niceties of formal duelling: Greeting, bowing and so forth, and there'll be no high-level curses. We'll do a tournament, several parallel duels going on at the same time, and then the last witch or wizard standing will win. Otherwise, let loose as you wish, and go find a duelling partner!"

Several grinning Aurors made their way towards him, and he smiled politely before accepting the first to reach him. The middle-aged, salt-and-pepper-haired witch gave him a cocky smirk, saying: "I can't wait to see if you'll live up to our expectations. Rumours are flying about you being so powerful, but I'm betting on the fact that you have no formal training whatsoever."

He arched an eyebrow in amusement. _This witch was in for a surprise_. He said, however, hiding his sarcasm with a polite nod: "I'm as excited as you are, believe me, to match myself against Britain's finest."

He watched several duels before it was his turn. Potter patted his back, and then he was out in the middle of the ring, facing the witch. He felt his blood start to pound, tension rising as his body readied itself for a fight situation, and the exhilarating thrill of conquering another by magic coursed through him in little waves. Then they were bowing formally – and with a medium-strength Stunner, it was over in a quick flash of red.

The witch was on her back, blinking owlishly, as the audience applauded wildly.

"You're fast," Potter remarked, giving him an appraising glance.

"I had to be," he said, grinning boyishly with the rush of adrenaline in his veins. "This was fun," he added, though his expression had already betrayed him. _Yes, he loved duelling. On his top ten list, it ranked a good fifth, behind deadly fights, sex, magical research and subtle manipulations._

He entered more duels, ending most of them quickly. In a few, he drew out the time as to not present himself as too powerful, especially in a duel with a young witch with noteworthy skill. He toyed with her before he finished it with a brutal _Confundus_ , making the witch dizzy and likely disoriented for the rest of the day. Though no one was a match for him, he enjoyed the exercise.

Voldemort noted that Potter hadn't entered the tournament, and he whispered to him: "Aren't you going to fight?"

"No," Potter said, giving him a quick look, arms folded across his chest, dressed in a scruffy grey workrobe. 

Tapping his lips speculatively, he asked: "Is it because you're expecting us both to win, to avoid meeting me in the final?"

"Yes," Potter said with a sheepish grin. "If I join in, I usually manage to get to the final. But, "he added earnestly, "it's not like I participate every time. I learn a lot from watching, too."

Voldemort almost sighed. _If it was one thing he really didn't need, it was Potter analysing his duelling style. If Potter was as good as he suspected, then he'd make note of wand movements and his execution. Chances were, he'd observe similarities in his own and Snake-face's duelling style._

Suddenly, Potter stiffened. Following his gaze, he saw Weasley entering the tournament with a scowl on his face, an angry glance thrown at Voldemort.

"Uh oh," Potter whispered, "I should have told you, he didn't take the front page from the Daily Prophet yesterday all that well, as you can imagine."

"Is he any good?" he whispered in return.

"Fairly good. He might go on to the final rounds."

Voldemort shrugged, watching Weasley closely. The young wizard _was_ rather good, showing promise, placing his spells neatly and with a clear strategic aim, using a variety of tricks to confuse, overwhelm or make his duelling partner grow over-confident. _It would not be surprising indeed, if young Weasley entered the final to fight him. Oh, how he loved a good fight._

He grinned, formulating a plan for how he'd handle Weasley. _Nothing elaborate, just a simple, fool-proof plan._ Nodding to Potter, he said: "Be that as it may, he's very good. Do you think I should withdraw?"

Potter glanced at Skeeter, the blonde witch looking bored as her Quick Quotes Quill scribbled furiously in her notebook, and shook his head. "No, I think you should continue. Skeeter will have a field day, but still, it won't be as bad as if you and I had a duel."

Voldemort quite agreed, but on the outside, he nodded pensively. "I'll go with your advice," he said slowly. _It always paid off to make people believe they made an impact._

And just as he expected, Potter straightened a little, giving a quick smile, as he brushed his hair away from his face. "You're very accomplished too, I'm sure the duel would be instructive for all of us to watch."

Sure enough, after a few more duels, both Voldemort and Weasley had nailed it, and the Head Auror declared them as winners, asking them to get ready for the final.

Weasley sauntered over to him, saying angrily: "I don't appreciate you getting between me and Hermione." Those baby-blue eyes were narrowed, squinting at Voldemort.

He shrugged, saying calmly: "I don't. If you're thinking about that front page, you know just as well as I that it's more about what they wanted to write than what actually happened."

"You don't see, do you?" Weasley retorted. "She's constantly talking about you, and if she's not talking about you, she's talking _with_ you. I'm losing my girlfriend, thanks to you."

He couldn't help feel a little flattered. _Did she, now? Gods, one day, he'd have to do something about his penchant for enjoying flattery._ Out loud, he said: "Hermione is a fascinating witch, but I can't control what she's saying. You know that."

Weasley snorted. "I know, trust me, but I've watched you. You are making subtle passes at her, trying to ingratiate yourself. And I'm saying it's working, and you are intentionally destroying our relationship. Just … stop it!"

The Head Auror came over, saying cheerfully: "Are you ready? Everything alright, gentlemen?"

"Yes," they both chorused, both giving Fawley a rather stiff nod. 

As they lined up, Voldemort could hear the audience fall to a hush, waiting with bated breaths, eyes glittering with excitement from the stands. He took a deep breath with closed eyes, smiling a little to himself, and readied himself.

At the signal from the Head Auror, he and Weasley bowed, his a formal, deep bow, while Weasley produced nothing more than an angry jerk of his head, not consistent of polite behaviour _at all_. As they both straightened, he gathered all his power, to send it out in a great push. The words came out in a soft, hissed whisper: " _Expelliarmus."_

The rush of his full power tore through him, like he was letting up the floodgates, and his whole being tingled with the sensation. The spell charged through the room, like a strong vibration in the air, similar to a sound too deep for the human ear, and the audience gaped in shock, like an electric current had just passed them by.

Weasley fell backwards, his wand thrown in a beautiful arch towards Voldemort, and it fell into his hand with a satisfying smack. At the same time, he heard a clatter at his feet. Looking down, he saw several wands lying in a small pile. The spell had been so strong, it had gone through Ron Weasley and collected the wands from a number of witches and wizards standing or sitting behind him.

Weasley himself was still on his back, eyes dazed, and Potter ran to check up on him. As Voldemort lifted his eyes to the stands, he saw Granger sitting at the back, watching him with an inscrutable expression in her eyes. He started, as he hadn't expected her to be there at all. _She had told him she'd be busy in court, hadn't she?_

Then she gave him a small smile.

For a fleeting moment, he had the ridiculous idea of this being a medieval tournament, and he wondered briefly if he should offer Granger her former lover's wand as a token of his victory, like he was courting her in public. _Because that's what it was, wasn't it? He had conquered her former lover, in public, in front of her._ Still holding her gaze, he lifted the hand that clutched Weasley's wand towards her, giving her a slow nod. _It was time to collect his prize._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read a few Tomione stories set in medieval times, and I'm a sucker for the classic element of a tournament with a prize for the lady (though the Tomione stories I read was a tad more violent...). I'm sure, Voldemort would look good even in a suit of armour. ;-)


	12. Heal to Destroy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh yes, he was going to ravish her. Right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut has arrived.

With his second espresso in his hand, Voldemort sat at the table in the Grounded Bean. His witch was at the counter, trying to decide if she'd have scones or croissants to go with her Americano. _That wasn't a choice, really_ , he almost scoffed to himself. _Everyone knew scones went with tea, and croissants went with coffee. His witch didn't seem to listen to common sense, though._ The Viking barista - _whose name seemed to be Éomer, or some sort of silly nonsense_ \- was trying to explain this simple fact to her, but she kept shaking her head, stubborn chit that she was. 

He felt thoroughly pleased with the duel. People had been all over him, congratulating him with his show of power, and Potter had whispered in passing: "That was some strength level on your last casting. I'm really happy I wasn't on the receiving end of something like that."

He had smiled, politely, wondering why his silly, mad snake-self hadn't used brute force with Potter, and replied: "He seemed like an able fighter, so I didn't take any chances. I just went all out."

Granger returned to the table, and he felt pleased. _She had, in fact, listened, and made the correct choice._ She carefully lowered her mug of piping hot Americano and a plate with no less than three large croissants to their table.

“Hungry?” he asked, feeling mildly amused. 

Sitting down, she smiled, almost nervously to him. "That was quite the power-show. To be frank," she almost hesitated, "I had no idea it was possible to Disarm twenty people at once."

He shrugged, cocking an eyebrow at her, an amused smile on his lips: "Now you know."

She bit her lip, before boring those golden-flecked orbs into him. "I _knew_ you were powerful, but this went beyond my expectations." Her voice fell to a whisper, as she said: "Tom, you must be even _more_ powerful than _him._ Thank Merlin, he didn't try anything like that in the war, or we would have lost."

Voldemort snorted. "If you ask me, he was too stupid to try. I guess he could have done a lot of things, but he didn't. It just shows he was an utter madman."

She shook her head slightly, a small smile at her lips. "I've never heard anyone else call him _stupid_ either, though we'll all agree to mad. It's a bit funny at times, because you really seem to resent him, but not in the same way as everyone else. People were afraid of him, but in a way, we've all respected him as a brilliant wizard. You, however, seem to feel that he was silly, foolish and just plain dumb, though he affected your life just as much as anyone else's. Maybe it is because you could have bested him magically, while everyone else was pretty much helpless against him."

He narrowed his eyes at her. _Granger was perceptive, he'd do well to remember that._ Curtly, he replied: "He was a fucking waste of talent and power, that's what he was. The things he did made no sense. I've read he killed thirty-seven of his own people. Destroying your own assets on such a scale, who does that kind of things, if not a complete idiot?"

She stared open-mouthed at him, and belatedly, he remembered that he should show some emotions, not coming across as too callous. Clearing his throat, he continued softly: "My mother and I used to laugh at him. That was the only way we could cope. When we packed up after a few months, every time… I was just a boy, starting to find friends in our new home, and then we had to move again, because of him. I hated him, Hermione, and I despised him. It felt like he had all the power, while all we could do was to run away. It was liberating to laugh at him."

Her eyes teared up, and she took his hand, stroking him softly. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't think…."

A voice broke in, drawling: "Well hello, Hermione. Out with your new boyfriend? I've read _all_ about it in the Prophet."

He watched in fascination how she straightened herself, seeming to grow a few inches, her face suddenly cool and aloof, before replying: "Hello, Marietta. It's been quite some time. How _are_ you?"

The atmosphere between the two witches almost crackled with cold, and he felt goosebumps travel up his spine, giving him lovely shivers, making his cock stir with the turmoil in the air, the feeling of cold hatred between the witches.

Granger looked disdainful, but also very _smug_ , as she scrutinized the witch standing beside their table. His eyes travelled to the witch, and he furrowed his brow. There was something odd on the girl's face. _A poorly executed glamour, hiding scars, in a pattern that looked very similar to letters…_

He blinked. The girl clearly had a scarring reading ‘SNEAK’ across her face. _How odd._

Sickly sweet, the witch said: "Oh, I'm good. Are you still stuck in that dreadful, low-level job with Magical Creatures? How disappointing it must be, not fulfilling your own career expectations."

A muscle twitched around Granger's eyes, and she replied, voice dripping with poisonous honey: "I find my fulfilment in doing something _important_ for society _,_ Marietta. And you? Still being a copywriter for that bureau, Magical Ads? I believe you are specializing in writing ads for beauty products – glamours and potions, right? Shame it's all talk and no effects, don't you think? One would think there was a difference, but – _no_."

The witch drew in a sharp breath, but Granger continued with a small, cruel smile: "You haven't met Tom Riddle, then? He's my friend, Marietta, no matter what the Prophet says. Tom, this is Marietta Edgecombe, one of my classmates from Hogwarts."

He shook hands with the witch, her face pinched in fury, glaring at Granger, and soon after, she stalked off to a table on her own.

Wondering what this was all about, he said slowly: "Hermione, why did she have SNEAK written all over her face?"

"She's a traitor," Granger said bluntly. "Did you ever read about our Defense club, Dumbledore's Army?"

He nodded, and Granger continued: "She was the one who betrayed us to that troll Umbridge. Unfortunately for Marietta, I had Charmed the sign-up sheet against treachery."

He lifted an eyebrow in surprise. "It's still on her face," he remarked.

Granger smiled, eyes dancing with the joy of spitefulness. "It seems I made the Charm permanent when tinkering with it. Ooops… What a shame, don't you think? To be branded a traitor and sneak for the rest of her life, just because a young witch made a simple mistake in choosing a suitable Charm."

 _That witch. She really blew him away._ Chuckling with admiration, he said slowly: "You're quite the vindictive witch, Hermione. You do know such a Charm can be lifted by the caster, don't you?"

Granger leaned over the table, whispering conspiratorially to him: "Yes. You see," she said, making quotation marks with her fingers, "sadly, I 'can't' remember which adjustments I made to the Charm. Therefore, it's 'impossible' to lift it."

At that, he felt as if his heart _leapt. Granger's cruel streak ran deeper than he thought._ He couldn't help himself, he started chuckling, shaking his head at her in amusement. It was a shame he'd be busy the rest of the afternoon.

Granger leaned back in her chair, looking like the cat that had got the cream, as she bit savagely into her second croissant. “Those were the times,” she muttered between mouthfuls. “Marietta got what she deserved, along with that dreadful Umbridge.” 

Voldemort couldn’t help asking: “Was that an ‘accident’ too?” His quotation marks were just as exaggerated as Granger’s had been. 

“Sadly, yes,” she said, now grinning fully. “The poor woman somehow insulted a herd of centaurs. Who would have known they would treat her like that?” 

“Who would indeed,” he said dryly, but couldn’t help sharing her wicked grin. 

“And,” she whispered in a conspiratorial tone, leaning towards him again: “Somehow, I feel like I can tell these things to you, like you’ll understand. You know, she still works in the Ministry. Don’t tell Harry, but at times, I Disillusion myself, follow her around and make sounds like hooves clopping on the floor.” 

At that, he couldn’t help himself, and he let out a big guffaw, making everyone at the coffee shop turn their heads, looking at him and Granger, as they both laughed helplessly. 

Xxxx

The light was soft, yellow-tinted from the pale curtains drawn across the window to keep the warm afternoon sun out, and the Longbottoms were lying silently in their beds. He held Mrs. Longbottom's hand absently, her eyes staring vacantly out in the room, but he was concentrating hard on gathering his magic. _This would be a marathon._ There was no possibility of stopping, until he was done. Or else, her brain structure would deteriorate fast, most likely very fast. _That could be fun, but it wasn't his aim right now._ He had to Transfigure her broken brain tissue, connect all those nerves, synapses and conduits magically, to give her a working brain again. _Then, he would be acclaimed as a hero and a do-gooder. Unfortunately, that result was a necessity for his plan, though he had to admit this would prove to be an exciting piece of magic._

"Ok," he said to his staff, five of them present in the room, as well as Neville Longbottom and three Healers from St. Mungo's. "If I need to pull away, you know what to do. Intervene immediately, and continue working, just like we practised."

"Yes," they chorused. The practise sessions had been hard, and he had vetted the five of them from an initial pool of ten. These people were his finest in Mind Magic, though, of course, far beneath himself.

The magic work itself was difficult, but making smooth transitions from one wizard or witch to another was extremely taxing. They had killed off several lab animals in the beginning, and in the end, he had had them practise on a House-elf, a Merman and a Troll. That was, of course, aside from the three Muggles he secretly had refined his technique on, all on his own.

Currently, there was one very dead Muggle man in Surrey, another catatonic fellow in Cornwall, as well as an Obliviated, but otherwise healthy woman in Wales. _Those practise runs had been great. First, torturing them into insanity, before conducting his experiments. The screams, the blank stares, the writhing in pain as he discovered what not to do, before his final success. He was nothing if not a meticulous planner and researcher. Besides, the risk of testing this for the first time in public would have been far too great a risk for his reputation. This way, it would seem to be a smashing success at first try._

He took a deep breath, before forcing eye contact with Mrs. Longbottom, going into the mess that passed as her brain. Systematically, he started to Transfigure her broken synapses into magical conduits, able to carry her neuronic impulses and energy, transmitting her thoughts and feelings.

His magic felt like a steady, strong, thudding pulse, slowly, meticulously Transfiguring half-destroyed tissue into channels, paths and conduits, reconnecting parts of her brain into a system, a continuous whole. The clock ticked by, sweat broke out on his brow, but still, his power flowed in a smooth stream, undeterred by his expended efforts. He was so focused on his work – _to make this a success_ – that he didn't notice night falling, the people around him yawning, the smell of coffee and dinner wafting in from the hallway, the crackling of candy wrappers and soft whispers from his team.

As he finally pulled away, grey dawn crept through the window. His voice came out hoarsely: "I'm done."

One of his employees squawked to life from what had been a nap, saying hurriedly: "Do you need us to take over, sir?"

"No," he said wearily, "I mean I'm finished. She should be fine."

Neville Longbottom came up to the other side of the bed, whispering softly: "Mum?"

The thin, pale witch opened her eyes, saying querulously: "Neville…?"

The young wizard gasped, clutching her hand, choking out a sob. "Mum, do you _know_ me?"

"Yes," the witch said, her voice brittle and reedy, like she was a hundred years old. "I remember you, my boy." Big tears fell from her eyes, but her eyes were locked on her son, drinking him in. "Suddenly, everything is different," she said wonderingly. "It's like the pieces of the puzzle fit, it makes _sense_ …"

Neville Longbottom gathered his mother in his arms, smiling through his own tears and sobs, "Mumbling: "I can't believe it …. He made it, you're _here_ , really, Mum, I love you, you _know_ me…"

"I've known you for years," she whispered, smiling too, "I recognized you, I've heard your name, but it was all disjointed, blurry, I couldn't string things together."

"Oh Mum, he Healed you, he found a way to do it. Dad will be Healed, too, everyone here in St. Mungo's…" Neville smiled, his nose red and eyes puffy and leaking, his emotions overflowing his ability to speak. 

_Joy and happiness… not the kind of feelings Voldemort was used to induce in people. It was … good, in a way, making him ride the outskirts of the emotional kick, but it couldn’t hold a candle to inducing fear and terror. Still, this was a major victory._

Voldemort leaned back into his chair, watching his success, feeling elation building. This was even better than he had imagined. His reputation would be stellar, and no one would ever question or doubt him due to his so-called parentage. This would be the final proof that Voldemort was an upstanding – no, _outstanding_ – citizen. _A hero. A wizard fit to rule them all._

Xxxx

The press conference later in the morning was a blast, cameras flashing, reporters asking questions, and the turnout from the Ministry in general was enormous.

The Prophet was there, the wireless news as well as the new Radio Magic, Transfiguration Monthly, the Journal of Magical Research, Healers Weekly, the Ministry Insider – even the Witch Weekly had showed up. _It was a rush, the admiration, the awe, the gratitude, the impressed looks, all directed at him._

Neville Longbottom was standing beside him, beaming, causing little bursts of unintentional magic in the form of Conjuring stars and flowers. The boy's eyes shone with a kind of desperate gratefulness that Voldemort rather thought he'd been hard pressed to induce even through the strongest Imperius. _It just proved his theory: To make people feel real emotions was by far more convincing than simply putting them under the Imperius curse. Therefore, manipulations of real feelings would get better results in the long run. The Imperius may be Unforgivable, but a well-planned series of manipulations gave results that were_ **_unforgettable_** _._

Standing in the wings of the scene, hidden from sight, he couldn't help smiling as the Head Healer of St. Mungo's told everyone that this was the greatest Healing discovery in a century, a starting point for repairing even more maladies of the mind.

The Minister was almost choking with his emotions, his voice thick: "What Tom has accomplished here is a magical feat for the ages. Tom Riddle and the Thought Office are truly heroes, and their discovery will save numerous people. This will change the way we're able to Heal, and it will be an enormous benefit to those who now can be saved from their conditions, their families as well as the magical society as a whole. The Ministry would like to offer our heartfelt gratitude, and I can hereby reveal that Tom will receive an Order of Merlin first class, while the team will receive the second grade Order."

The peak was, however, when Alice Longbottom moved slowly out on the scene, walking stiffly like she was fighting to keep her balance. The gasps and whispers were immensely satisfying, and the painfully thin woman stopped, looking uncertainly back at her son. Neville Longbottom rushed out on the stage, embracing his mother, stroking her back. She clung tightly to her son, seeking comfort and strength, before she let go, turning to face the audience again. Several of the spectators were sniffling, some even bawling openly as the witch borrowed her son's wand to set the Sonorous Charm on her vocal chords.

Mrs. Longbottom said, still tearful: "Today, I have gotten my life back. Before today, I hadn't enough awareness to be able to make sense of anything, not being able to even talk, everything was hidden in a blurry fog. Now, I remember everything, and I'm so thankful. It seems almost like it was fated, that the son of my ultimate destroyer has given me the power of consciousness back. Mr. Riddle, you are a truly great wizard, and I thank you for your time, ingenuity, compassion and devotion to make this come to pass."

The applause was thunderous as he finally had his cue to enter the stage, and Voldemort was sure the pictures of her hugging him and her son would make the Wizarding World News, though, being _hugged_ was very much beneath his dignity. _Oh well, the sacrifices he had to make for world domination…_ He almost chuckled.

In the interviews, he made sure to give credit to his team, who in turn pointed to him as the sole creator of the idea and the one who had actually accomplished this feat. _It was important to be seen as a good leader. One who "appreciated" his people and their "efforts." At least, on the surface._

At the back, he spied Granger sitting together with Potter, eyes bright, shining and tearful, sending him looks that went straight to his cock.

He felt himself almost blazing with power, pride and strength coursing through him, the rush of it all, the feeling of being _invincible,_ having played them all, manipulated them, won them over decisively, _triumphing_ , proving that he was infinitely more powerful, smarter, _better_ than the rest of them, having _won._

He made his way over to Granger, hearing Potter congratulate him, thanking him, saying "This means so much for Neville, for us all, as his friends," but he barely noticed, only having eyes for her. _He had to have her, now, needing his release from this pent-up power rush. Oh yes, he was going to ravish her. Right_ **_now_** _._

After a few, mindless pleasantries, he managed to snatch her away from Potter. Giving her a nudge, she followed him into the hallway. Quickly, he Disillusioned them both, and shoved her into a broom cupboard.

Before she could say a word, he pushed her up against the wall, kissing her fiercely, forcefully, passionate. Her eyes big with surprise, she opened her mouth for him, letting him in, and she sank into his touch with a sigh of submission. Blood thundered in his ears, throbbing in his cock, and all he could think as he ground his hips against her was: _No foreplay._

"Tom," she said wonderingly, her breath coming faster, her hands clutching his shoulders eagerly, as she kissed him back.

Cupping her arse, feeling that round globe firmly in his grasp, he hoisted her up, her legs around his hips, and she gasped into his mouth. Vanishing her tights, he inched his right hand under her skirt, towards her knickers, feeling the satiny laces against his fingers, prodding at her pussy. The resulting moan was deeply satisfying, and he threw a strong Silencing spell at the walls, as well as warding the door. Outside in the corridor, he could hear the crowds leaving the press conference, voices talking excitedly, some even shouting, their boots clacking against the stone floor in the corridor. He smiled grimly into her neck. No one would know Lord Voldemort was at last truly debauching their precious, little Golden Girl in a broom cupboard, with just inches of stone between them and the crowd.

Pulling Granger's knickers aside, his cock lurched as he felt her wetness. _She was almost dripping, those soft, silky pussy lips smooth to his touch._ Plunging a finger inside her, she arched her back, before thrusting her hips against him, begging silently for him to move his finger.

Growling, he Released his belt wandlessly, making his boxers and trousers pool at his feet, letting his cock spring free.

Her whispered "Yes!" encouraged him into pushing her knickers aside roughly, positioning his cock against her hole with almost feverishly moving hands, before thrusting hard into her. _Gods, she was so tight, so wet_. His eyes almost rolled back in his head, as her muscles constricted around his cock, gripping him, making him groan, and her little whimpers and gasps fuelled his movements, cock pulsing swollen and hard inside her in time with his hips.

"Morgana, you're so big," she muttered, "I feel like there's barely room for you. Please, it feels so good." Her moan rose to a crescendo with one forceful thrust, and she grunted: "Oh, more of that, please, oh gods yes!"

He growled in her ear: "Please what? Do you like it rough, tell me, do you want me to fuck you hard?"

His hips snapped hard against her, and she bounced on his cock, her back slamming against the wall with his rhythm, their sex slapping against each other with a wet sound.

"Yes, yes please," she sighed, eyes closed, and he could feel her tightening her muscles around his cock, meeting him stroke for stroke.

Moving fast, he felt he'd come in mere minutes, but still, he wanted to feel her cunt squeezing him through her orgasm. He was in a hurry, he wouldn't last very long, but it was difficult to reach her clit in their position.

Conjuring a small vibrator for her clit, he set it into motion with a faint buzz. Her eyes widened comically in surprise, and he bit down on the pulse point at her throat, making her give off a small scream, turning to increasingly loud moans of passion. _Vibrators was, in his opinion, a vast improvement from the fifties. No one had spawned the idea of vibrating, magical sex toys back then._ Silently, he thanked the little receptionist from the Prophet for her rather sizeable collection of sex toys. He had learned a lot. 

Granger's legs were trembling around his hips, her nails clawing against his shoulders, and her face was scrunched up, gasping: "Tom, I'm coming, I'm coming!"

And then she was, her cunt spasming around him, squeezing his cock, milking the sensitive head and his shaft, and like it was far away, he heard her scream his name again and again: "Tom, oh gods, Tom!" as she ripped the vibrator away from her sensitive clit. 

Voldemort felt his own orgasm approach. His spine tingled, his balls hardened, and he drove harshly into her, his hips and balls smacking against her thighs and arse, and the mad blood rush swelling up his cock even more, making it grow and throb, stretching the witch even further, before bliss shot straight up his rod, hard pulses of fire through his groin, his shaft lurching inside her, shooting out thick ropes of seed deep into her wet and willing pussy, and he gasped, riding the wave of pleasure coursing through him.

Leaning back slightly, he rested his head on her, panting, as his cock twitched in aftershocks, still buried deep inside her.

She let out a shaky laugh. "Merlin, Tom, I had no idea you were this passionate. I've never felt anything like this, you blew me away completely."

His breath was still unsteady as he muttered to her: "Same to you, witch. You're a fiery little thing, aren't you?"


	13. The Weakest Link

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giving Weasley a tight smile, he crooned: "Of course. We'll keep her happy. You'll play your part, as I am playing mine. It'll be a smashing success, and our lovely Golden Girl will be taken care of."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance to any Dolohov-fans that may be reading this story (I never liked him…).

"I suppose you know why I called this meeting," the Minister said, looking somehow both pleased and worried at the same time.

"I wouldn't presume to know, no", he said politely, sipping his tea from the pretty flower motif bone china cup. The Minister had his very best tea set on the table, with strong, black tea, cream and sugar, as well as a tiered stand with biscuits and cakes. Voldemort eyed the plain shortbread greedily, overlooking the pastries and the chocolate treats on offer. He supposed this fascination with the buttery, sweet biscuits was a result of growing up in Scotland. The Hogwarts elves had made truly delicious shortbread, and they always had some for him whenever he entered the kitchens.

Helping himself to a shortbread, he savoured the rich, sweet taste in his mouth, as he waited for Kingsley Shacklebolt to offer him the job as Department Head. _Because he knew why he was here, he just didn't deem it polite to say so._

"It's truly sad, but there seems to be little chance of Saul returning to his post. The illness is spreading, and St. Mungo's are helpless. All he can hope for, is to stall the inevitable by relaxing, getting lots of fresh air and the right nutrition," Shacklebolt said mournfully.

 _Ah, he must have done a good job on the spell casting, then. It seemed to be killing off Croaker nicely, not only debilitating him._ Voldemort mentally patted his own shoulder.

Trying not to frown at the Minister's atrocious taste in clothing – _really, wearing red robes over green pants and a yellow shirt made the man look like a Muggle traffic light_ – he adopted a worried expression himself. "I'm surprised at the rate Mr. Croaker's health has been deteriorating," he said sadly. "We've been worried at the management meeting the last two weeks, but he has really tried to do his best in the face of his illness."

"Yes," Shacklebolt said, shaking his head. "It was hard for him to let go, but both he and I knew the time had come. That's why I wanted to talk to you, Tom. Would you consider taking on the post as Head of the Department of Mysteries? The Ministry needs someone like you. With your power, your recent successes and your popularity as a leader in your office, I feel you are the perfect choice."

Feigning surprise, he said: "Me? But, I've just started, there must be so many experienced professionals in the Ministry who deserve this more than me…"

"True, there are lots of people with more experience," Shacklebolt said, smiling amiably, "but none with your potential and talent, Tom. We need you, and I hope you'll accept the post."

Pretending to mull it over as he sipped his tea again, he hid his smile into his cup. _Everything worked out like he had planned. Getting Granger, Healing the Longbottom witch to get great PR, making ‘friends’ with Potter, showing off his skill in the duelling contest, establishing a foothold at Hogwarts, and now, becoming a Department Head after three months in this new timeline. And revealing Granger's infatuation with him to the world would be the next crowning glory, before…_ He almost spaced out for a moment, as he started to envision her tits under his hands again.

"You looked like you were very far away," Shacklebolt said with amusement. "Tell me, is there anything in the rumours about you and Hermione? I know what a wizard in love looks like, and it's important to think about how such steps as taking on a new job will affect one's significant other."

Voldemort felt himself blink with shock, and to his mortification, an angry blush rose in his cheeks. He twisted his fists into his robe, to keep from drawing his wand and show Shacklebolt exactly what Lord Voldemort thought of being associated with the filthy concept of _love_.

Shacklebolt laughed, and said: "No, no, keep your secrets, I won't pry. But I have to say, I always thought Hermione and Ron were a disaster waiting to happen. Apart from each other, both of them are nice, rational people, but together…" he shuddered.

Shaking his head, Voldemort said a little stiffly: "Thank you. I would appreciate it if you didn't tell people as of yet. We're keeping it low profile for the moment." _This was preposterous! Suddenly, Shacklebolt's future looked so much bleaker. He would have settled for letting the man step down, but now, after issuing such an insulting comment, Voldemort would have to rework his plans._

Continuing, he said: "I will accept, of course. This is a real honour for me, and I will do my very best to succeed."

Shacklebolt beamed at him, saying: "I know, and if _you_ do your best, then the Mysteries are in good hands."

He had to smile a little at that – _because it was true –_ but continued: "I would, however, ask you to give me free reign in a few matters. You see, there's the matter of the malfunctioning Offices of Love and Prophecy. I want to do some changes, because the Love Office doesn't conduct real research, they're only experimenting with looks to get easy access to _sex_ , and the Prophecy Office needs to go on rehab, restricting their access to certain Potions…"

Xxxx

The whispering in the hallways never ceased. Yesterday, it had been his own, unexpected promotion, and today, after his first Head's meeting, well into the afternoon, it was the scandalous behaviour of the elderly Head of the Department of Magical Cooperation. Rumour had it, the man had dropped his trousers and jerked off in a meeting with several female, international delegates.

Being a Head himself, he had been at the crisis meeting Shacklebolt had called right after the incident, and as the wizard in question, a seventy-five year old man, had repeated the same action among his peers, the man was quickly dispatched into a super-quick retirement to everyone's relief and agreement.

Voldemort was very pleased his new curse, the _Senility Curse,_ had worked so well. It made lasting changes in the brain, working like an advanced dementia, but the man's actions had been all his own. He could just as easily have fallen asleep, asked for his Mum or decided to throw food around. Chuckling slightly to himself, Voldemort thought that there was _no way_ he could have foreseen that the man would act like a pervert. This curse would, therefore, produce rather exciting, individual results, thus making it hard to track. _Sometimes, it really paid off being in the Thought Office, having access to all that previous research. It had made the curse development much easier. And now, as the Head of the Department, he'd have access to even more knowledge. Magic was in for a bright future, indeed._

Xxxx

There was one thing he could appreciate with the Weasley Wizard Wheezes products, though most of it were silly stuff. The Extendable Ears was one intriguing piece of magic, and right now, he could hear the voices of Potter, the female Weasley and Granger just as clear as if he had been in the library too.

Granger had wanted to tell them about their 'relationship' on her own, claiming that it would be easier. It was alright with him, but he did want to know what she said and how they reacted. Thus, Lord Voldemort found himself sitting on the stairs in Grimmauld Place, eavesdropping on the woman he was currently fucking and her friends.

Her soft voice said: "Please, I know this is going to be hard on you, but I want you to hear me out."

Potter sighed loudly, and said: "Is this about you and Tom?"

A shocked gasp was all he could hear for a while, and then she said, hesitantly: "Did you know?"

Ginny Weasley snorted. "We'd have to be both blind and deaf to not notice the two of you being attracted to each other. Seriously, Hermione, you're not _that_ good an actress."

Slowly, like she was fumbling for words, she asked: "Aren't you angry with me?"

At that, Potter chuckled, a tired sort of laugh: "Really, Hermione. We only wanted you and Ron to be happy. And the two of you clearly haven't been so for a while. I've thought for quite some time now..."

Ginny Weasley interrupted her boyfriend: "You've been squabbling since day one. Frankly, it's been exhausting for us to be in the middle of it. I, for one, have told you several times that you should split up. I'm happy you've finally done so, giving you both a shot at happiness. And Tom, well, he seems to be a good guy." Mumbling slightly, the Weasley girl added with a small giggle: "At least, he's good looking enough."

"I think you and Tom are a good match," Potter said. "Of course, it may seem a bit abrupt after your break-up, but I've been waiting for this. The two of you have so much more in common that Ron and you."

Voldemort snorted to himself. He sincerely doubted Granger would enjoy being compared to Lord Voldemort. While the chit was useful enough and a good fuck, he also resented himself being compared to _anyone_ , not matter how intelligent and beautiful she might be. _He was unique, wasn't he?_

"You really, really aren't cross?" Hermione's voice was full of relief, and he could _hear_ her pretty smile in her voice.

"Absolutely not, " Weasley said warmly. "We just hope that you and Ron will become friends again, in time, that is."

Then Potter said slyly, in a sing-song voice: "We have a secret of our own to share. Would you like to know, Hermiiiioooneee?"

"Out with it," Hermione said, the happiness of being accepted filling her voice, making it both breathy and husky at the same time. Something tugged in his stomach by the sound, and he pictured her face, smiling, excited, relieved – and _oh so pretty_. _He bet she looked just as flushed and happy as she had after their tryst in the broom cupboard._ Once again, he congratulated himself on finding such a witch. Not only dead useful and smart, but definitely good-looking too. _What more could a wizard, ready for world domination, wish for?_ He smirked to himself.

"We're expecting," Ginny Weasley said proudly, "and we'd like you to be the Godmother."

His witch squealed – _there was no other word for it_ – and he winced slightly. _Gods, more brats to contend with!_ Pulling at the fleshy strings, he gathered up his Extendables, and prepared to enter the room to congratulate Potter and Weasley. Voldemort reasoned, even if he had been hidden away at the attic, he would have heard the happy squeals. He could just as easily enter the library to be done with congratulating them. _Oh well._ He plastered Tom's pleasant expression on his face again.

Xxxx

As he and Malfoy left Delphini in the afternoon, he stopped the older man just around the corner. _It was time to find out why the Malfoys suspected him._

The Rowles lived in a quaint Muggle village. There were rows of stone cottages with tiled roofs, while neat flower beds and blooming trees adorned the gardens. No matter who might pass them by on the narrow pavement, no one would understand what they saw. Only the Rowles could have an inkling to what he would be doing, but Malfoy and himself were now well out of sight from the Rowle family's house.

Whatever Malfoy suspected, he would know after this. Forced Legilimency was an experience to be remembered, and each mind had an unique signature. _Voldemort was about to ring the bell._ He almost smiled in anticipation.

The blonde wizard had dressed in a long, dark, green velvet cape, with silver studded boots and a light grey trousers and shirt, of course heavily embroidered with ranks of silvery vines creeping over his torso. _Always with the theatrical dressings,_ he thought wearily, and not for the first time, he wished that Abraxas hadn't succumbed to dragon pox at the tender age of sixty. _Well, this Malfoy would do nicely for what he had in mind, no matter his choice of attire._

"Lucius," he commanded, making the blonde wizard look nervously at him. With a brutal push, he entered the mind of the Malfoy patriarch, forcibly thundering through his considerable defences, diving into the memories of the young man named Tom Riddle, ripping through the surprisingly organized mind at lightning speed.

The only thing visible for anyone passing by, was the slight widening of the blonde's eyes, and his loud intake of breath. Two men staring at each other on a corner, nothing else worthy of note.

_*Flicker*_

_It was impossible, but somehow, he was sure that his Master had returned. This man sitting at the café, sipping espresso – this wholesome-looking young man – could it really be? Better not taking any chances, even if this was a mere hunch. A feeling, nothing more. Surely, it couldn't be. Still, safeguarding would be the Slytherin thing to do._

_*Flicker*_

_That voice. Those inflections. The vocabulary. How could a mere foreigner speak in the voice of Lord Voldemort? The rich, cultured, undiluted Queen's English coming out of the mouth of a man supposedly raised by a Romanian witch, having never visited England?_

_*Flicker*_

_Those shows of temper. Yes, exactly like him. From smiling and gracious to snarling fiend in the blink of an eye. Yes, that's him, right on the mark. How could a son act so much like the father he never knew?_

_*Flicker*_

_Wand movements, that smooth casting as he showed Delphini spells. So elegant, so effortless, so much coiled power behind the simplest Charms. So very like_ **_him._ **

_*Flicker*_

_Soundless Apparition, that too? Even that trait was similar. Surely, this ability was virtually unheard of. Was it possible to inherit this?_

_*Flicker*_

_Antonin said he never had a witch in 1970-71. It wasn't possible, he said, sitting in that dreary visiting room in Azkaban, and Antonin should know. Lucius himself wouldn't know, being too young at the time, but he knew as well as Antonin that the man had absolutely no interest in fucking. Had it even been possible for him to father a child? Antonin claims he is a fraud. Lucius, on the other hand, knew he was not._

_*Flicker*_

_His face. His eyes. Mannerisms. Cold, calculating, sizing me up, determining my usefulness. Must keep useful. For his family’s sake, he would need to, or else… He_ **_must_ ** _be Lord Voldemort. But how?_

As he pulled out, Malfoy slumped, gasping for breath. Quickly composing himself, the wizard inclined his head, murmuring: "Welcome back, my Lord. I hope to be of some service still."

Giving Malfoy a tight smile, he said curtly: "Believe me, you will, Lucius. You have much to atone for after your family's betrayal. However, the first thing I command is an Unbreakable Vow. You will never reveal my identity to anyone, nor the fact that I hold you to an Unbreakable Vow. Let's visit your pretty wife to get a loyal bonder, yes?"

Xxxx

The place stank of unwashed bodies, sour sweat and fear. Grey, dull concrete walls made for an oppressive environment, and his steps rang out through the corridor. In places, the walls were oddly chipped, covered in dark, rust-coloured stains seeping into the cracks. Voldemort had never actually been to Azkaban before, but he found the place depressingly ugly, and that was even without the Dementors.

_Lucius and the pretty Narcissa had nervously babbled about unrest among his old followers. Those who weren't in Azkaban were disturbed by Lord Voldemort's son walking the halls of the Ministry, and those who were inside, frothed at the mouth, believing him to be a fraud and an impostor. "They might even try to kill you to prove a point, my Lord," Lucius had whispered. "We're allowed visits to Azkaban, the prison is so much more open today than it used to be, and you should be worried. Especially for Antonin. He's positively raging."_

_Narcissa nodded, still pale after her fainting spell as he had walked into her parlour, and added softly: "People are still angry after our loss, and you seem like the ultimate proof of how we lost the war. Successful, a good citizen, on friendly terms with Potter and his gang…"_

Voldemort stopped behind the guard, in front of a heavy door. As the guard fumbled with his set of keys, he smiled to himself. _Lucius Malfoy_ _was once again securely in his pocket, and his wife was well and truly Obliviated, just like the young heir. It wouldn't do to have too many people knowing his true identity, but he needed Lucius's services to execute parts of his plans. Malfoy had responded well to his suggestions, with a skittish, nervous energy._

The door creaked, opening slowly, as the guard's arm muscles shook with the effort of pulling it open. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled, "doors in Azkaban are immune to magic. It has to be so."

Inside, in a small chamber sat an old wizard, lank, stringy, grey hair plastered to his face. The room consisted of two chairs, and a crude table. The man was chained to the wall, and he was exceedingly dirty, clad in rags, smelling like an open sewer. Voldemort felt the need to pinch his nostrils, but contented himself by setting an air-freshener spell.

As he entered, the man looked up with a feral light in his eyes, before he spat at the floor. "Impostor, filth!" he muttered angrily.

Voldemort frowned. _It was hard to connect the sight in front of him to the memory of the loyal follower of his youth. Antonin had been handsome, once. Brutal, but still able to give off that debonair impression of being a true gentleman._

The guard said warily: "Will you be alright, sir? I'll be just outside the door if you need me. The manacles on his hands are dampening his magic, so he shouldn't be able to throw any spells at you. If he does, it will be weak, like flickers."

"I'll be fine," he said, walking slowly over to the table. The door slammed shut behind the guard with a resonant clang, and Voldemort sat down.

"Hello," he said, studying his follower closely. Antonin Dolohov clearly wasn't sane, but that was as expected, having read that ludicrous autobiography of his, ' _My Life with the Dark Lord'_. In the book, Dolohov had partly claimed to be a victim, partly claimed to be the mastermind behind Voldemort’s operations, the rantings fluctuating wildly between pathetic whining and unreasonable bragging. _Clearly, he was off his rockers, and besides, while Voldemort could grant him that Antonin had been one of his better and more useful followers, he was no mastermind._

He supposed there was very little left of the brutal, but clever mind of his loyal former Knight, now Death Eater. _Still, he couldn't allow Dolohov to endanger his operation. At least not by threatening his Lord's life._

Immediately, the man started ranting: "You impostor, traitor, trying to capitalize on the greatest wizard there ever was, bastard filth that you are, I bet your mother was a whore and never knew your real father. I _knew_ the Dark Lord, and he had no witch, he never had, and I was with him the whole years of 1972 and 1973, he lived in my house part of the time, there was no way he'd hide a pregnant witch, you are a liar, a fraud, you have no right…"

Voldemort almost blocked him out, letting his rant continue for a few minutes while he studied the man, wondering how he would neutralize him best. Though, after a while, he got tired of the endless, disrespectful insults.

Feeling an increasing irritation, furrowing his brow as he impatiently tapped his foot, in the end he snapped angrily: "Shut up, Antonin."

At that, the man stopped short, sucking in his breath. A look of wonder and exhilarated bafflement spread over his face. "You," he sputtered, "you, but how is it possible? I could recognize that tone of voice from a crowd of hundreds! Oh, my Lord, I will follow you, I'm your loyal man to the end, my Lord!"

Voldemort almost groaned. _Stupid, to reveal himself to a walking liability like Antonin. And all it took was a show of temper. He'd have to remember that._

"You know what happens next, Antonin." He could feel his eyes grow colder, as he looked at the filthy, ragged man, who looked like he had an epiphany right there in the dreary, cold Azkaban visiting room.

"Yes, my Lord! You'll take over the Ministry, freeing us, all of my brethren and sisters, and we reign forevermore under your rule!" The feverish light in Dolohov's eyes seemed to die, as Voldemort's sneer became more pronounced.

"Wrong answer, Antonin."

Xxxx

The next time he saw Lucius Malfoy in passing at Diagon Alley, it was lunchtime a few days later. The man paled visibly, before nodding politely. Grinning, he supposed the man had been shocked by Antonin's rather violent death. _Really, the Azkaban security was more than a little lax, as they didn't dampen the visitor's magic._ Dolohov had left the visiting chamber with a rictus grin, knowing that he'd die within the next two days, but unable to speak of it. _Maybe he wouldn’t have either, due to his fanatic belief in Lord Voldemort, thinking himself a martyr at last, making the Tongue-Tying Curse unnecessary. Still, Voldemort took no chances._

And Antonin had died, quite beautifully so, exploding into little bits all over his cell, drenching the walls with splatters and gore. The Ministry was in an uproar, everyone discussing how the spells dampening the inmates' magic had malfunctioned in such a way. Voldemort wondered idly if they had actually held a funeral. It shouldn't be necessary, because there shouldn't be anything to bury, really.

He felt almost like dancing, the joy of destruction and putting the fear of his wrath into people _for real_ again was burning through his veins, and his inner joy was fed by Malfoy's fearful glances. As Granger came hurtling out of the bookshop to join him, he couldn't help smiling at her, real happiness in his eyes, as he scooped her up, giving her a kiss right there in the middle of Diagon Alley for all to see.

"I'm sorry for being so busy lately," she said, her cheeks rosy, and her eyes sparkling.

He let his hands run up and down her sides, tracing the lovely curves of her hips, wishing for the soft feel of thin, silky summer robes, not the thicker spring robes.

"Me too," he murmured. "Taking over the Department has been time-demanding."

"Will you go home with me tonight?" Her whisper was low, and he felt like his cock was shocked into life, a raging erection pressing against his stomach, fighting the constraints of his trousers.

"Yes," he rumbled into her hair, "I just need to get some things from Grimmauld."

She beamed, and said: "I'll meet you at Grimmauld at six o'clock, alright?"

Xxxx

After work, he hurried home, feeling elated by his success. The Love Office had been successfully shut down, their research mostly discredited in the upper echelons of the Ministry, and the Head of the Prophecy Office as well as a few choice employees was firmly ensconced in a not-so-discrete Potions rehab institution, _The Happy Little Cauldron_. The fun part was, there was no need for him to invent _anything_. The Head of the Prophecy Office had actually burst into tears when he suggested it, readily confessing her abuse and dependency of several mind-altering potions between sobs. To tell the truth, he wondered how she was able to stand straight with all those potions running through her system.

As he entered 12 Grimmauld Place, not expecting anyone to be there this early, he almost ran into Ron Weasley, sitting on the stairs in the murky light of the hall. Weasley looked dishevelled, tired, and with a grim expression around his mouth.

He looked at Voldemort, running a smudged hand through that long, red hair of his, and said bitterly, calmly: "I saw you, today, in Diagon. Kissing. I know, it's over, me and Hermione. I just wanted to tell you, though I can't stand the way you tried to impress her and win her away from me, I realize it could never be me and her. We weren't right for each other, and maybe you were just the catalyst. First and foremost, she's my friend, and I want her to be happy. So, in short, I wanted to tell you this in person. I wish you good luck, though I can't exactly say you're my favourite mate."

Weasley stood up, joints popping after sitting hunched, the added leverage of steps making him somewhat taller than Voldemort. Then he reached out his hand: "No hard feelings, right? For Hermione's sake."

He nodded, taken by surprise, accepting Weasley's handshake. _Weasley showed a surprising amount of loyalty and friendship, as well as the mental discipline to forgo petty anger. He was stronger than Voldemort had suspected. At some other time, he'd make a great follower. One who'd do anything he asked. Someone worthy of taking Antonin's old place, as a smart and loyal follower. But as he also was the most annoying member of the Golden Trio and had been a vital part of the downfall of snake-face – well, Voldemort's objective was something entirely different. Weasley would play another role in his production._

He cast his mind out to discover if anyone else was at home yet. _The house was empty, barring the House-elf sleeping in his lair. Ginny Weasley's cat was purring to itself, stretching out on her rumpled bed, claws tearing a small rent in the largest down pillow, soft paws playing with the feathers it managed to excavate. Yes, Voldemort was good to go._

Giving Weasley a tight smile, he crooned: "Of course. We'll keep her happy. You'll play _your_ part, as I am playing mine. It'll be a smashing success, and our lovely Golden Girl will be taken care of."

Sliding easily into the mind of the young man in front of him, he set his plan into motion. Idly, he thought: _If there was a heart in my chest, it would surely be bothered by taking over this young, brave wizard's mind. But he hadn't, so the point was moot._

Xxxx

She was punctual as usual, looking lovely in a dark grey robe, with black pants and a delicate, moss-coloured blouse underneath. The greeting snog had been deep, passionate and hot, her tongue probing his mouth, and his cock was more than ready to fuck her brains out. Voldemort supposed he should show _some_ restraint, not jumping her like a madman. Instead, he let her Apparate her directly into her flat.

"This is nice," he said, looking around in the living room. To be frank, it was a bit on the small side, and she had crammed in enough shelves and books to fill a much larger room. There was a small, worn sofa, a tiny coffee table, and most notably, a small television. Voldemort snorted.

"You watch TV?" he asked, lips quirking with amusement.

She blushed prettily, and said: "I do. There are a few TV series I like to watch, and I also like to stay atop the Muggle news."

He nodded. _After all, he had watched a lot of TV when he first entered this timeframe, just to familiarize himself with the way people spoke and what had happened in the world over the last fifty years._ Voldemort grudgingly admitted to himself, TV might be the one Muggle invention that was superior to its wizarding equivalent. The wizarding wireless just _wasn't_ a match for the TV.

Through an open door, there was a small kitchen, with large windows opening to the street. On the other side, there was a shiny, new glass and concrete office building, seemingly oddly out of place, straining towards the sky on a too narrow plot, being squeezed between two older, Victorian brick terraced houses.

 _That view…_ **_That_ ** _view…?!_

His mouth fell open, and he walked mindlessly towards the kitchen windows, neglecting his role completely. He clutched the sill, his hands forming an almost claw-like grip, so strong his arms were shaking. _It couldn't be, but it was. Why and how had Hermione Granger chosen to live just across the street from fucking Wool's Orphanage? He had vowed to never see the place again, and yet, here he was. It was a small consolation that the place had been torn down and replaced by a new building, but the houses framing it was still the same as in his childhood. There were thousands of such houses in London, but there was no doubt. He had spent_ **_years_ ** _of his childhood wondering what it would be like living in exactly those two houses instead of the dratted orphanage._

He felt her soft hands stroking his back, and she said gently: "I take it you know what that used to be."

A strangled groan escaped him – _he almost shook with a laughter verging on the hysterical_ – and he swallowed, nodding.

"We went there, you know, to look for his Horcruxes. The house wasn't there, anymore. Later, I found this apartment, and it suited my needs. Maybe I should have told you, warned you beforehand," she said, tone apologetical.

Composing himself with an effort, he croaked out: "I would have liked a warning, yes."

"Sorry," she muttered, hands still stroking his back. For a while, they were silent. She kept giving him those soothing touches, and he slowly forced his anger down, trying to break free from the stream of memories:

_He was two. His stuffed bear was stolen by an older girl. Her leg snapped._

_He was three. Two older boys hit him. They fell down the stairs._

_He was four. An older girl stole his Sunday dessert. Her stomach cramped, vomiting over the dinner table._

_He was five. A much older boy shoved him into a closet, then tried to yank down his trousers. The boy screamed as his dangly bits caught fire._

_He was six. Two girls annoyed him at school, and their books were blasted to tiny pieces._

_He was seven. The boy in the bed beside his own didn't deserve a new book, it should have been a present for him. Walter Scott's 'Ivanhoe' came flying through the air, smacking into his hand._

_He was eight. A girl refused to let him stand first in line at breakfast. Blindness suited her nicely for her overblown sense of self._

_He was nine. Billy Stubbs was an idiot. Funnily enough, his rabbit was of the same opinion._

_He was ten. Those kids were purposely showing him disrespect, rolling their eyes at him. In the cave, he showed them their worst nightmares, and their screams gave him goosebumps of pleasure._

_He was eleven. Dumbledore came, and…_

Blinking, he managed to control his mind once more, tearing away from the flow.

Her arms crept around him, and she said, musingly: "I've always wondered if he'd be different if he hadn't grown up in such a bleak place."

Childhood bitterness forced its way through, making him spit out: "You mean, if his mother had lived, and he had been raised by _proper_ wizards?"

"Yeah, by someone who loved him," she said.

_Loved him. Would his mother have cared for him? She didn't care enough to stay alive, did she now? Would he have entered Hogwarts a little less cynical and jaded, a little less aware of how people fought for scraps of food and things? It didn't matter. None of it did. No one did matter. Everything was just as it should have been. He was unique, fit to rule the world._

Shrugging, he turned to her, clasping her in his arms. "It doesn't matter, does it?" Holding her tight, he remembered his role. _He had to rationalize this._ "You know, I wanted to keep as far away as possible from anything connecting me to him. This … was a shock."

"Sorry," she mumbled again, "I should have known you'd research this, knowing the place from sight. I know I would have done so."

He managed a small chuckle. "We're swots, aren't we?"

She laughed ruefully: "I suppose we are."

Forcing his mind away from his past, he backed her up to the kitchen counter, lifting her up. Stepping between her legs, he kissed her again, bending her head to the side, licking her throat, his hands roaming her sides.

The salty taste of her skin, coupled with a floral smell, was enough to activate his cock again. It stirred, growing in his trousers, reading itself for fucking this hot, little witch. She moaned, laughing huskily at the sensation, whispering: "Gods, Tom, you make me feel so… I get instantly wet when you do this. Can you feel it? My knickers are soaked."

She Divested herself of her trousers and took his hand, pulling it in between her legs, and he fingered her drenched, lacy knickers slowly. A whine left her throat, and he cast a wordless " _dilorico"_ to unbutton her shirt.

Trapping her arms in her shirt, he pushed the lace of her bra down, exposing her dusty pink nipples. She gasped, the small buds hardening, and his head came down to suckle her breast. _It was perfect, a firm, nicely sized mound, with a pink, hard bud standing out for him to lave at with his tongue, to suck with his mouth._ He gave her an experimental, small bite, and she jerked, moaning out loud. He smiled, with her tit still in his mouth, and tugged lightly at it again.

"Holy shit, Tom, gods, I feel…" she mumbled incoherently, and his fingers pushed her knickers aside, stroking her clit. Her legs were jerking, and her hips were thrusting against his fingers rapidly. The smell of her sex became stronger – _sweet, succulent, wet pussy_ – and his cock throbbed, straining hard against his clothes. Suddenly, she trembled and gasped, her pussy twitching against his fingers, her hands grabbing his hair almost painfully as she hoarsely shouted: "Tom!" He pumped his fingers into her spasming hole, enjoying the wet, squelching sounds of her. As she came down, he manhandled her to turn around, letting her pretty little rear face him, and he tore down her knickers, fumbling with his trousers, and at last, his cock was free. The thing was so eager, it slapped hard against his stomach as the contraints of his boxers were removed. 

Shoving himself roughly into her still quaking cunt, he groaned deeply. _So tight, so good, her sex pulsing around his length…_ She moaned slightly, saying weakly: "Fuck me hard, Tom, show me how much you want me."

"As you wish, little witch," he grunted, hips slapping against her arse, and he looked down to see his cock disappear between her cheeks, pistoning her. _The sight of his own cock thrusting into a wet cunt had always excited him, and with such a perfect, tight little arse and pussy like Granger's, the pleasure was too exquisite._

His cock became wet and shiny from her arousal, throbbing, his thrusts becoming harder, and then Granger squeezed all she had with her cunt, gripping his cock like a vise. Pleasure bloomed in his head – _later, he'd swear to Granger that he saw stars_ – and his orgasm shot down his spine, grabbing his balls, rocketing out his cock in great, heaving spurts of bliss. _Yes,_ he thought incoherently, _yes, fill her up, mark her, let her drip with my seed, make her mine, possess her, claim her, take her, she's mine, mine, mine…_


	14. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort, however, could barely force the glower from his face, plastering a pleasant, interested expression on his face instead. “Good for you. Gary from the office,” he almost whispered. “Who’s he?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Tom is doing his "thing" again. It's not very graphic, but still...
> 
> Also: This is a long chapter.

His hips were moving lazily against her arse, his cock slowly pumping into her tight, wet opening. _Spooning, oh so very comfortable,_ he thought, _just not something that Lord Voldemort would do. Too cosy, just too … nice. Still, it had felt like this was the thing to do, waking up beside her, his arm curled around her._

She had stretched, languidly, giving him a tired, sexy smile, as she woke, her curls trailing over his shoulder and chest, tickling him.

"Hello you," she had said with a small, happy laugh, and then she ground her hips against his pelvis, giving him a wicked smile. "Are you _quite_ awake?"

He had thrust his cock at her, nuzzling into her soft, but springy mess of hair: "Wide awake." His hands had caressed her breasts, plucking her nipples to stiff points, before it snaked down between her legs, tickling her slit into slick anticipation.

And now, he was inside her, snugly ensconced into her silky, wet heat, his witch moaning as he continued to stroke her little nub into a slow, lazy crescendo of gasps and little cries of pleasure. When she clenched around him, her breath stuttering as she convulsed, he was suddenly pushed over his own edge, following her into bliss, cock jerking inside her as his seed spurted out inside her.

Their breathing slowed, and Granger mumbled in contentment: "What a way to wake up." The smell of lust permeated the room, and the sheets felt soft and silky against his cooling flesh as he pulled them over his chest again.

"Yes," he sighed, feeling spent, but with an odd mix of pleasure and malcontent. _Lord Voldemort just didn't do soft, cuddly morning fucks. In fact, he was perfectly willing to believe he was the_ ** _least_** _cuddly wizard that ever had graced the earth. Maybe Granger constituted some sort of exception, due to her importance to his plans. Maybe the sickening sweetness, the inherent_ ** _caring_** _in this way of fucking didn't matter. After all, it was something people would expect in a long-term relationship. Yes, he could do this too to stay in character as 'boyfriend', though he would need to restrict the cuddly, cosy spooning to a minimum, to save his pride and dignity. Because really, Lord Voldemort didn't 'spoon'. It was unthinkable. But once in a while, he could indulge. To keep Granger happy, that is._

Xxxx

Over the next week, he saw the elder Malfoy flitting in and about the Ministry. They never talked – _it wasn't necessary, Lucius had his orders_ – but they silently acknowledged each other in passing. Malfoy looked pleased, so he gathered the mission was well underway. He expected no less, because after what he had read about the war, Abraxas' son was more than proficient in securing and setting up bribes, and more importantly, covering up his tracks.

To his amusement, sometimes Draco Malfoy trailed reluctantly along with his father, clearly forced into training on how to be a proper Lord Malfoy. The young heir was looking far older than his years, face lined from too much drinking and what Voldemort suspected was also a habitual use of 'recreational' potions. In short, the young man was a shame to his name, not even mentioning that incident when he had spattered droplets of urine on Voldemort's shoes. His wand hand twitched at the memory, but he stayed his hand. _The Malfoy line was important. The young fool would be allowed to procreate, and afterwards… Well._ Voldemort felt his lips twitch at the thought, and as he met Lucius' eyes, the man looked worried, hurrying his son away to avoid passing too close to Voldemort.

Xxxx

The evening was foggy, swirls of mist drifting slowly through the narrow street. They were standing, Disillusioned, outside Skeeter's house. Anticipation coursed through him in happy, little waves, and he smiled at the shape he couldn't see, but that he knew stood beside him.

She whispered to him: "Are you sure we shouldn't just Apparate inside, instead of waiting outside? We could surprise her from the inside, and no one would be the wiser."

"Positive," he said decisively. "She's almost sure to have Apparition wards, but if I tear them down, well, the sound will make the neighbours come running."

"I don't really understand," she grumbled, "is it really that noisy?"

"You've never tried?"

"No," her voice was slow, reluctant. And then, he had to smile, as she confessed the real reason for her grumbling: "I don't _know_ how to do it. I haven't found _anything_ about how to, as you say, tearing down Apparition wards. They are supposed to be indestructible, aren't they?"

He almost chuckled, but was relieved the Disillusionment Charm hid his grin. _She'd be so angry if she thought he was laughing at her._ Instead, he said: "Nothing is indestructible. You cannot pick apart Apparition wards, you have to tear them down forcibly, and it sounds like a thunderclap. A very loud one. Unfortunately, you can't mask the sound, if the wards are set properly, that is. I'll show you how to do it. We could go to a moor, preferably a desolate one, to practise. This sound is a special feature of Apparition wards, as most other wards will go silently, at the most with a soft pop, no matter if you pick them apart or if you tear them down."

"Ok," she sighed. "You seem to know your way about wards, and you have to tell me how you learned all this stuff later." She sounded more than a little envious and peeved, and he relished the fact that she, just like him, wanted to know _everything._ Granger continued, saying: "We'll stick to your plan, just knocking on her door, then."

They waited in the dewy fog, droplets shining on the surfaces hit by the light of the nearby streetlamp, and finally, Skeeter was home, the muted crack of Apparition coming from inside her house. _Of course, she would have set the wards to open for herself. That was the sensible thing to do._

The lights of her house were lit, and they could see a shadow stumbling through the house.

"Is she drunk?" Granger whispered incredulously.

This time, he chuckled out loud. "Seems so. It'll make our task even easier. Remember, we knock on the door, and I take down the _other_ wards. Then we step inside, you contain her as I put up Silencing Shields, and then I force her into her Animagus form. You stand ready with the jar. An easy plan, eh?"

"Ok." She let out a deep breath, and said: "Let's go."

Outside the door, Granger let her Disillusionment fall, as she rapped on the door, three sharp knocks. She set a glamour into place, making her appear as a young, blond waif.

Then they waited, before Granger knocked, once again. A slurred shout came from the inside: "I'm coming! Alright, I'm coming!"

The door creaked open, and the bleary eyes of Rita Skeeter peeked out through. "Who's there?"

"Sorry to bother you, Ms. Skeeter, but I have a tip for you." Granger imbued her voice with nervousness just perfectly, and he felt pride swelling. _His devious little witch, now a proficient actress too._

"What, can't it wait until office hours?" the witch grumbled, but opened the door a tad more.

"It's a bit delicate, you see. I work at the Department of Magical Transport, and my boss has been abusing me. Sexually. It's been going on for months. I don't know who else to turn to," Granger whispered, eyes downcast.

"Do come in!" Skeeter was now beaming, her nose almost twitching as she sensed a scoop, another scandal.

As Skeeter opened the door, he silently and quickly picked down her wards, needing only a few seconds to unravel Skeeter's protective spellwork, stepping in after Granger. Well inside, he let his Disillusionment fall, just as Granger let her Glamour slither off, becoming her usual, deliciously pretty self.

Skeeter's eyes bulged, and she groaned out: "You – and you?! What are the two of you doing here?"

Granger gave the witch a cold smile, sending _shivers_ down his spine, and she said silkily: "Why, Rita, I thought your imagination was far better than that." Nodding to him, she said grandly: "Proceed."

He felt his lips form a feral grin, and he whipped out his wand, pointing it at Skeeter, whispering: " _Animagi Ostendo."_

His power washed over the witch, engulfing her, holding her, _forcing_ her into still suspension in the air. The spell prickled along his spine, making him aware of the darkness inherent in himself, his magic pouring out licks of hot, black fire in his bloodstream, scorching him with pleasurable pain.

The woman blurred around the edges, face shocked and horrified, her fear rolling off her in almost tangible waves, as she shrank impossibly, Transforming into her beetle form. First, her head retracted between her shoulders, then her back, shoulders and hips broadened, arms and legs were re-angling themselves into a beetle’s joints, curling up, her mop of blonde hair collecting into points, hardening, turning into black feelers, before the colour spread over her body – and, there she was, a scuttling, black beetle on the floor.

Granger scooped her elegantly into a glass jar, and shut the lid with an audible click. As she stood, he saw her eyes dancing with malicious amusement.

He smiled at her, a _genuine_ , joyful smile, and said: "Did you want to talk to her now, or do we just leave? I need a few minutes to reset her wards."

"Oh," his Golden, not-so-goody-two-shoes-Girl said, "I rather think she knows what this is about. Let's just leave when you're done. She can sit on my shelf, ruminating, until the time is right."

The beetle was waddling frantically around in her jar, pinchers clicking, and he nodded at Granger. _Of course. Doling out uncertainty was the more nasty way to go about this. Granger was … well, perfect._

Skeeter – well, she would be useful too, writing stories he would plant in her mind. In the old Pure-blood society, everyone was related, and everyone kept to a system of favours to friends and family. But today, such things were frowned upon, even though almost half the Ministry was still related to each other. Though she didn't know it yet, Skeeter would soon go on the warpath, accusing more than a few select high-ranking officials of blatant nepotism. And the beauty of it was, no one would be able to prove her wrong. The ensuing havoc, accusations and public outcry would be a _thrill_.

Xxxx

“Good morning,” she thrilled, sliding into her seat at the Golden Bean after giving him a kiss on the cheek. 

“Morning,” he said, foregoing his morning grumpiness by giving her a half-smile. Downing his second espresso, he knew the barista Èomer Rohin was well underway with his third. _The man was singularly gifted, having a way with his Coffee Brewing Charm that Voldemort himself would be hard pressed to match._

Sighing, he let the caffeine rush surge through his body, as he kept smiling at the pretty witch at his table. 

Hermione was talking animatedly, but he wasn’t listening, opting instead to look at her face. _She was almost glowing from the inside, a radiant blush, and he was pleased knowing it was because of_ **_him_** _._

Then she said: “It’s going to be so exciting, I’ve never been in Sweden, and their new Creature laws are so fascinating, really, quite different from ours, and I can’t wait to interview the head of their Justice Department.” 

Voldemort blinked. “Come again?” he asked politely, furrowing his brow. 

“Here you go, number three is served!” the barista grinned, gently placing a piping hot espresso before him. 

Preoccupied, staring at his witch, he muttered: “Make it four today. I feel like I will need it.” 

“Alright!” Éomer Rohin laughed, before returning to the counter. 

“I said, I’m going to Sweden with Gary from the office for three days! Didn’t you listen at all?” she repeated, her voice artfully casual. “And I’m so excited, and we’ll research the new Swedish law on creatures, and…” 

Voldemort, however, could barely force the glower from his face, plastering a pleasant, interested expression on his face instead. “Good for you. Gary from the office,” he almost whispered. “Who’s he?” 

Xxxx

He was growling to himself. The Muggle in the puddle of blood on the muddy forest ground twitched imperceptibly, those last, electric impulses still firing stress signals through the man's brain. It was day two of Granger's three-day trip to research the Swedish laws on prosecuting beings, specifically their new, fifth amendment detailing the rights to legal representation, and he was – _there was no other way of putting it_ – still uneasy.

The Muggle's eyes were glazing over, with that unseeing sheen belonging to the newly dead. _His face looked rather odd,_ Voldemort mused, as his mouth had been removed with the Oscausi Curse. It wasn't only painful, it removed the victim's ability to scream too. Very useful, considering the man had taken his sweet time dying, thanks to the Transmogrifian Curse. It was a gruesome death, even _he_ had to admit that, but it suited what he had felt when Granger had told him about her trip. 

_Right. Just 'Gary from the office.'_ As if Voldemort hadn’t easily found out that the man was a six foot tall, blonde, handsome and _smart_ wizard, who was entirely too preoccupied with Granger as it was, sniffing around her for years. _The man was bound_ _to make a move on his witch. Well, there was nothing to it, he had to let Granger go on her trip, and 'Gary from the office' would await his fate sometime later._

Voldemort scratched his neck, still feeling tense. The forest smelt of wet leaves, the light rain not yet drizzling through the heavy foliage, but there was a tang of iron and copper on the air, a whiff of freshly spilled blood.

 _Today, one death wasn't enough to ease his mind._ Usually, he didn't kill or torture doing his daily drill. Most of the time, he just practised duelling moves, tested new variations on spells, and just _exerted_ his magic, finding desolate moors or mountains, deep forests and the like as his practise grounds. Places where no one went, where no one would ask questions about lightning in the skies, blackened stones, dead trees and lifeless grounds. At other times, like now, he collected Muggles to let out some steam. _But it was risky, and he tried to avoid it, taking care to spread missing people and deaths all over Britain._

Angrily, he slashed his wand at the corpse, Transfiguring it into a pile of dead twigs. Today, even after burning off some of his anger on the unlucky bastard in front of him, he still had too much energy. Granger's announcement and then her tender kiss goodbye had taken him totally by surprise, and since then, he just didn't feel like _himself_. 

Granger was useful, intelligent, beautiful and a very good shag, but he was _not_ supposed to go all unhinged because she wasn't available to meet his needs. _And who knew whatever Granger did while in Sweden?_ Something white-hot twisted in his chest, restraining his breath, and all his rational reasoning that he had firmly secured Granger for himself seemed to vanish – _again. Damn it, Granger was his, yes, he was willing to admit he counted her as one of his possessions by now, her body belonged to him, and she had no rights to go off to a foreign country with another wizard to…_

He grimaced, stopping himself short. Speaking of women, he frowned at the next Muggle, a woman this time, sitting dazed and Imperius'ed under the fir tree. He had, of course, tried to ease his discomfort earlier in the day by having a discrete go at a Ministry worker who'd been eyeing him for weeks. The most disturbing part of it, was that he hadn't really wanted to. _For fuck's sake, he didn't even get it up!_ _That had certainly never happened to him before._ He had Obliviated the girl, leaving her dazed in a bathroom, while he had stormed away, feeling _murderous._

Tapping his lips, he scowled at the woman under the tree. _Yes. It had to be something violent, something that required a power blast._ Pointing his lovely Silver Lime wand at the woman, he put all his force behind his words, saying loudly and clearly: " _Reducto!"_

The woman dispersed into a fine mist of ashes, scattering at the first gust of wind. And like that, he felt infinitesimally better.

Xxxx

The next morning, he saw Lucius Malfoy passing through the Ministry Atrium again. With a slight nod, he indicated to Malfoy that he wished to speak to him.

Malfoy sidled up to him, schooling his face into a polite, curious expression, but not quite managing to hide his ever-present, hilarious fear.

Voldemort felt his lips twitch in amusement. "Walk with me," he commanded shortly, settling a Notice-Me-Not Charm around them, and Malfoy obediently followed him. They weaved through the corridors of the Ministry, busy people passing them by, but no one called them out. Letting Malfoy stew in his nervousness for a couple of minutes, Voldemort at last relented, breaking the silence with a question designed to unsettle the man further: "So, any news on grandchildren for you yet?"

The man's steps faltered, and he sputtered and stammered: "Whaat? Gran-n-n-ndchild-dr-dren?"

He shot him a brief look, and the panic on Malfoy's face almost made him laugh out loud. Those ice-blue eyes weren't so cold now, not with those pale eyelashes flapping in distress.

"Yes, you know, those tiny things that sons or daughters bring home for visits," he quipped.

"Ah, well, no, nothing that I know of," Lucius said, the words "my Lord" almost inaudible as he dabbed the beading pearls of sweat away from his brow with a silver-embroidered, green silk handkerchief. _Of course,_ Voldemort noted with a faint distaste, _it matched his green socks and shirt perfectly, and he wore another, brand new silver brocade frock coat. Not that Voldemort minded people being well dressed, not at all, but really, the man had to spend hours a week with his tailor._

"You should get your son going, he isn't getting any younger," he replied coolly. Malfoy, being the good Slytherin and well-trained Death Eater that he was, immediately caught on to what Voldermot _wasn’t_ saying, answering shakily: "I will do my best. Please, Draco is… He used to be better than this… I'll get him on track again… Please, my wife, he's her only joy these days, please… "

"Never mind," he said airily, brushing the man's concern for his son away, before moving on to the real reason he had wanted to talk to Malfoy. "I'm on my way to tell the Minister about Delphini. As you can imagine, he will want to talk to you too."

Malfoy blanched _again_ , no doubt envisioning a well-deserved stint in Azkaban as the outcome. Voldemort was well aware Lord Malfoy had made a solemn vow in his trial after the war to tell _everything_. Hiding Lord Voldemort's daughter would definitely be reckoned as keeping back vital information from the Ministry. Consequently, Shacklebolt would be well within his rights if he carted the Malfoys off to Azkaban immediately.

The man muttered, "Please, we only did what was best for the child. Surely that should count for something, even for the Minister? And, my services will be quite useless from the Northern Sea…"

 _Absolutely,_ Voldemort thought with a smirk, _but your gratefulness in London will be much appreciated._ Out loud, he said calmly to Malfoy: "Of course. You can expect my full protection in this matter. There will be no more imprisonments as long as you – _and your family_ – keep yourself useful. You should know, I reward faithful, cunning people."

The glance he sent Malfoy was meaningful, and the man straightened slightly, before he whispered: "Thank you, my Lord, I _am_ grateful. I will strive to do better."

Xxxx

The fire was burning merrily in the fireplace of the Grimmauld library. Outside, it was a chilly spring evening, but in here, it was warm, the logs sending up little sparks into the chimney, crackling slightly.

Granger rested her head on his lap, curling up on the sofa, and he felt content. _She was back, and his discomfort and bad mood was mysteriously gone. This was, no doubt, due to the fact that his prized possession was back under his control, and he had shagged her quite thoroughly, several times during the night, releasing his steam. Pinning her down on the bed, her hands above her head, crushing her with his weight, spreading her legs to get to those slick, silky folds, shoving his hard, aching cock inside her tight heat…_

He forced his attention back to his interesting book written by an Italian scholar on magical theory: ‘ _Magical Molecules: What Constitutes Humans as Magical Beings'_. It drew heavily on Muggle research, but juxtaposed this relatively arcane knowledge on the more firmly established, scientific laws of physical magic. The book hovered in front of him, and one hand rested on Granger's stomach, while the other slowly burrowed into the silky threads of her massive hair. His curious little witch was reading a spell-translated book called ' _Loopholes: Creature Laws Revisited'_ , no doubt something she had picked up on her trip.

Potter was slouching in a wingback chair in front of the fireplace, with Ginny Weasley on the floor in front of him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Potter lean forward, whispering something into Weasley's ear, causing them both to glance at Granger and him. Afterwards, the couple shared a happy, knowing look, before Weasley sighed in contentment as Potter followed his example, threading his hands into his paramour's long, red hair.

After a while, Potter cleared his throat, shattering his contentment and concentration in the middle of the conclusion on an exciting argument on why wizards had prolonged lifespans.

"Your sister," Potter said, "why don't you bring her over to Grimmauld for a weekend? We'd be happy to meet her. It would give you some more time with her, too. Getting to know her big brother better."

He pursed his lips, and his witch wriggled in his lap, turning her face towards Potter and Weasley.

"Maybe," he said slowly, but inside, he felt _horrified_ at the thought of entertaining the little chit for a whole weekend. _What would he do? There was no way Lord Voldemort would be playing tags with a three-year old for an entire weekend. It just … wasn't happening._

"You know, we need the practise," Ginny Weasley said, patting her stomach, like she had read his mind. "You can bring her here, and we can help taking care of her too, not leaving everything up to you." Brightening up even more, she said excitedly: "And we can bring her to the Burrow on Sunday! There, she can meet the rest of the kids, getting to know her future playmates!"

Sceptically, he said: "Are you sure your parents will care for having _another_ of _his_ children over for a visit?"

The red-head giggled, and said: "I can assure you, they love kids so much, that even if Voldemort himself had shown up as a child, he'd be mothered and stuffed so full of food he couldn’t even say Avada."

The witch in his lap snickered, muttering: "True."

He shrugged, wondering what his three-year old self would have done if presented to the Weasley family. _Eaten as much as he possibly could,_ he suspected, _before he would have – successfully – stolen any toys in the house._

"I don't know if you've tried to find any babysitters for her, yet," Potter said nervously, messing up his hair with one hand, green orbs peering at him underneath the hair that now haphazardly fell into his eyes. "Well, Molly _is_ already looking after Fleur and Bill's daughters as well as Percy's. She has been talking about certifying as a magi-childminder. Molly could be a likely candidate, at least, she could be a starting point for you."

He looked at Potter in surprise, exclaiming: "That's something!" Laying it on thick for the benefit of his image, he added: "Then I would be _sure_ she was well taken care of." Ginny Weasley beamed at him, and Potter looked pleased too. He had to give it to them, it was actually a good idea _. He hadn't bothered to look for a babysitter yet, but this would be adequate. For a while. Still, there was the very real problem of his daughter's nature. Molly Weasley would probably not be happy when she discovered Lord Voldemort's more … special… traits in his daughter._

Slowly, he said, testing the waters: "You do realize Delphini isn't … all that nice, all the time? She likes to destroy things, and she's fairly powerful for a small child. She can do real damage, and she has undeniably done so in the past."

Potter scoffed, fire boiling in his eyes: "Come on, give the kid a chance! She's not used to other children, no wonder she's destroying things out of sheer boredom. It isn't necessarily because she's _evil_! Meeting other kids, living with her _brother,_ her family, will be a positive influence!"

Lifting his hands warily – _he had no intentions to quarrel with Potter in full saviour mode –_ he said: "No, what I meant to say is that she'll need time to adjust. And that can be difficult." Giving Potter a rueful and _very_ insincere smile, he said: "I suppose, I should thank you for defending her. She needs to be taken care of." Hesitating, he continued: "As you said, she needs her family. The only thing is, she'll never see me as a brother, you know. The age difference is too great. I'll be more like …" his voice lowered, artfully like it caught in his throat, "… like her father."

Ginny Weasley winced a little, and Potter's eyes softened. "I can see why that's difficult," he mumbled, nodding a little.

Granger turned in his lap again, patted his knee, and said sleepily: "You'll do great. I'm sure you'll be a fine father."

 _Luckily for them_ , he supposed, _she wasn't able to see Potter and Weasley roll their eyes in amusement, wiggling their eyebrows at him._

Xxxx

He chose to start out small, having Delphini over from Saturday to Sunday, not the whole weekend. He argued to Granger: "It'll be too much with two nights away, she's not used to travelling. Better to ease her into it."

She beamed at him, saying softly: "That's very considerate of you. Delphini is so lucky to have you."

At that, he almost snorted out loud. _Lucky indeed, she wouldn't have life, if it wasn't for him, or rather his deranged, snake-faced self._

His daughter, however, proved to be of an adaptable mindset, turning on the charm full tilt for Potter and Weasley. Voldemort felt a sting of something he thought could be _pride_ , seeing his daughter act so devious just to impress people.

She raced the stairs with Potter, who produced a tiny broom for her to zoom around on, hooting with laughter as the young man tried to catch her by running after her, her long, blonde hair trailing behind her as she urged the baby-broomstick to go faster.

With Ginny Weasley, Delphini giggled as the witch drew Hippogriffs, Grindylows and dragons, making her a magical colouring book where the pictures moved. She was all smiles and rosy cheeks, but he could see her eyes following Weasley's wand-work with a cold, clear interest, making him feel certain that she would aim to replicate the drawing spell on her own sometime later. The pregnant witch was obviously emotional, looking at his daughter with soft, teary eyes, giving her big, wobbly smiles.

"May I braid your hair, Delphini?" Weasley asked, patting the girl's silky, fine locks.

"Yes," his daughter said regally, "you may. Be careful, no tugging!" Her tiny finger came up in Weasley's face, admonishing the grown-up with a serious expression that made Ginny Weasley fight her laughter without success, hugging his child as they both laughed.

In the library, Delphini cuddled into Granger, and his witch read story after story for his daughter, letting her choose the books.

To be frank, he considered this a smashing success. He almost didn't have to handle his own child at all, but he did teach her an easy spell for making the grand piano play on its own. 

The most awkward moment came at bedtime.

If Granger hadn't been beside him, he'd have said a curt goodnight and left, but with a clever, curious witch observing his try-out as a family man, he had to make an effort. Therefore, Delphini was tucked into bed, and got a goodnight hug, his insides writhing in disgust for this loving pretense.

The small girl looked expectantly at him, before her brows turned into a frown: "Aren't you going to sing?"

"Sing?" he said, flabbergasted, sitting on the edge of his daughter's bed.

"Yes! I want you to sing 'Hush Little Baby'. It's my favourite song," Delphini exclaimed.

"I don't know this song," he said, trying to stall. _Singing? Whenever did he sing? He wasn't sure he had ever sung at all. And, he was quite sure he'd never heard a lullaby in his life._

Luckily, Granger took control, softly humming:

_"Hush, little baby, don't say a word,_

_papa will buy you a phoenix bird._

_And if that phoenix bird doesn't sing,_

_papa will buy you a goblin-made ring._

_And if that goblin-made ring turns to brass,_

_papa will buy you a Foe-spying glass…"_

He stared incredulously at Granger, who was happily humming, a look of contentment on her face as she looked down on Delphini.

_Was Granger out of her mind, singing about the child's father, knowing very well who had sired her? And such lyrics…! True enough, his daughter would have only the best of everything as befitting her stature and superior blood status, nothing less. And then, when she got older, she would be sure to deliver on his expectations. But Granger singing about this to Lord Voldemort's daughter, was nothing short of ludicrous._

As he cleared his throat, Granger stopped, and Delphini yawned. She said sleepily: "Eufemia sings this to me. She says it's about my papa. He would have given me the entire world, she said."

Granger drew in a shocked gasp, looking very upset, but he just muttered: "I'm sure he would have. Sleep well," leading Granger quickly out of the bedroom.

Well outside, he glanced at her, seeing her worried expression. To placate her, he muttered: "We need to get her out of that Death Eater household."

Granger nodded fervently, saying: "I didn't think about it like that, this is a perfectly _normal_ lullaby, for wizards, that is. Who would have thought they told her _anything_ about him? And, what would someone like him really mean when he offered her the world?"

Blandly, he said: "It was probably very literal, don't you think? She would, of course, have been offered her own countries to rule. Or something like that. How would I know?"

Xxxx

They ended up going to the Weasley's for Sunday dinner, though only after a lot of agonizing on Granger's part.

"Are you _sure_ they will want to see me?" she said, nibbling on her bottom lip. He wanted to suck it into his mouth, stroking those bitemarks with his tongue, but his mouth merely quirked as Ginny Weasley exasperatedly said: "Yes, for the hundredth time, they told me so! Didn't Mum tell you they'd always think of you as their daughter, no matter what Ron did?"

"Yes," his witch mumbled, with a frown on her pretty face. "Your mother did support me when that _Lavender_ thing happened, but still. It's more final, now, and I've got Tom…"

"Shut up," the small Weasley witch said callously. "They will be happy for you, and they adore Tom."

Deplphini seemed to get along surprisingly well with the Weasley kids, and Molly Weasley had fawned all over her, stuffing her with biscuits and treats to her heart's content. Though, there was one incident which everyone thought was involuntary magic.

She put one of the whining little brats' stuffed animal on fire, and in the ruckus of putting out the fire and comforting the screaming little toddler, he could see her eyes glitter with a familiar malice.

Scooping her up into his arms, he whispered to her: "Don't. Don't let them see. They don't understand. Keep it a secret."

His little daughter turned to him, all serious, and nodded. "Yes. They mustn't know."

Her little face fell into a surprised look, and she put her thumb into her mouth, like she was insecure. Arthur Weasley held his arms out to her, saying: "Poor little one, with so much magic inside you! Don't worry, sweetheart, you will learn to control it in time. Look, we've already fixed little Lucy's bear. No one's angry with you, darling. Tell me, I've heard you can do real magic too. Will you show me?"

The man's face was kind and smiling, but still his _clever_ little brat looked to him for confirmation.

He nodded to her, putting the thought into her head: _It's ok. Summon something, but no fires. Be smart, Delphini._

A few minutes later, Potter said carefully, directed to no one in particular: "So, is Ron sick? I haven't seen him at work for days."

"What?" Molly Weasley said, instantly the worried, flustered mother hen.

"Yeah, he hasn't been in, and he hasn't been at Grimmauld. I figured he might be here?" Potter's brow creased, and Voldemort could see his hands clench and unclench, like he was uneasy. Delighting in the sudden onset of worry and fear permeating the room, he had a hard time keeping a grin off his face. _Potter probably worried about a rogue Death Eaters attacking young Weasley._ Voldemort fed on the growing panic in the room like a parasite, lapping at the nervous energy with relish.

Through a cacophonous babble, they managed to verify that no one present had seen Ron Weasley for more than a week. Potter was all for leading a search party: "Now, right away, we can't dawdle, he might be in danger!"

Percy Weasley, however, clamoured for bringing in the Aurors: "It's only sensible, Harry, we are all too close to Ron, we might harm people from emotional outbursts if he's in trouble. It's got to be an official investigation. Don't put yourself in any more danger, will you?"

Potter scoffed, and Bill Weasley nodded. "Nothing says we can't do both, Percy. Why don't you go to alert the Auror office, and then I can join Harry after the kids have gone to bed?"

Arthur Weasley tutted: "No one's going to look for Ron right away. First, we alert the Aurors, and then we decide upon a rescue party after getting professional advice. Alright, boys and girls?"

Most of them nodded reluctantly, but Potter had a stubborn set about his jaw. Voldemort sidled up to him, saying quietly: "I'll join you. Between us, I think we can handle it, whatever it is, don't you think?"

Potter nodded, saying softly: "We'll just leave a bit earlier, and then we start looking."

"Where do we start?"

"Pubs," Potter said, a half-mocking smile on his mouth. "He might be in danger, but he also might be just binging. Or, we could hear something interesting, leading to a tip."

Xxxx

He had convinced Granger to deliver Delphini at the Rowles, something she grudgingly accepted, after telling him: "I should join you, I can take care of myself in a fight, thank you very much." The glance she shot him was laced with irritation, and he almost grinned at her.

Instead, he said: "I know, darling. It's just, I feel like this, if old Death Eaters are involved, I should help Harry. It's _his_ fault, I mean, _my father,_ and I feel like I should help righting things…"

"Oh Tom," she said, tears swelling in her eyes, and she kissed him soundly to Delphini's amazement.

Xxxx

With Potter, he trawled all the pubs in Diagon Alley without result, and now, they were well on their way to the fifth pub in Knockturn Alley.

"At the last pub, you handled that woman coming on to you very nicely," Potter said, shooting him a look.

"Thanks, I guess," he shrugged.

"I mean, Ron, he would always be so flattered by the attention, and that's what led him to cheat."

Seeing the opening for ingratiate himself further, he answered: "But the thing is, I'm not interested. That makes it easy to turn them down." _And as of late, it was true. The thought made him almost nauseous, but he forced his face into a pleasant expression._

Potter shook his head with a grimace, and said: "Most men are flattered by female attention. It's a good thing you aren't, because after what Ron did, Hermione needs to feel she's special. As you might know, he cheated on her very publicly."

"His loss," Voldemort said curtly as they entered another, seedy bar. With an odd, clenching feeling in his gut, he realized that even as he said this as part of his role as the 'boyfriend', it wasn't far from the truth. _Granger was…_

"Damn right you are," Potter muttered, interrupting his thoughts, as they weaved through the crowd, while nodding approvingly at him. _Yes, it was the right thing to say, then, but still..._

The pub reeked strongly of spilled beer, with a faint whiff of mould and that tell-tale smell old, rundown wooden houses always seemed to carry. The patrons were on the scruffy side, many hiding their faces behind deep cowls, and several had worn and tattered robes, some glaring at anyone daring to look their way. _Just the average Knockturn clientele of criminals, illegal potion makers, alcoholics and wizards_ _threading the paths of the grey or darker areas of magic._

Voldemort supposed, his snake-faced self would have had dealings with quite a few of them, making Potter into a virtual sitting duck for any attackers. There were whispers and pointing, and many scowled at them, though it was fair to say, just as many frowned at himself. Half-amused, he reckoned several would see himself as a target, too. _Well, if they tried, they were in for a surprise._ Though, it seemed that Voldemort's task today, would also be to make sure no one harmed Potter. _A rather odd twist of fate,_ he mused.

"There," Potter whispered, "he's in the far corner."

Sure enough, a dishevelled, drunk and obviously stoned Ron Weasley waggled precariously on a bar stool, leaning his head to the grimy wall, his trembling hand clutching a smoking glass of Firewhisky.

He followed Potter closely. The young wizard strode briskly towards his inebriated friend, plain, grey robes flapping behind him. "Ron, where have you been, mate?" Potter said worriedly, clasping a heavy hand on his friend's shoulder. "And what have you been drinking … and taking?" The hesitation was slight, but it was there. Potter was a good enough Auror to recognize Weasley being stuffed to the brim with illegal potions.

Weasley lifted bloodshot eyes at them, sneering at Potter. "Fuck you, Harry, for always getting in my way. No one cares for me, all they jabber about is Harry Potter, Harry Potter, Harry Potter. Seems no one remembers what I did. As if you had managed without me? Can't you give me a fucking rest, for once?"

Potter stepped back, before he gathered himself, reaching out a hand to Weasley, again. "Come home, Ron. This is not the place to be."

The other man batted his hand angrily away, snarling: "Are you here to steal the attention? Those witches were ogling me. Look, now they're only staring at you and him." He indicated two witches across the room. Potter's eyes softened in sympathy, as those two clearly were prostitutes looking for a customer.

"They're not what you need, Ron…" he said, but the red-head jumped down from his chair, swaying dangerously on his feet, before growling: "Leave me alone, Harry! You've destroyed enough of my chances for being recognized for what I do as it is. Recognized... like I deserve! And you," he pointed at Voldemort, "don't make me even start…" His blue eyes bulging with his ire, he shakily produced his wand, pointing it into Potter's face.

Voldemort silently cast a weak Confundus at him, making Weasley slur his speech, making verbal casting near impossible.

"Engorg… Engorgish… Engorgisho Schkullusch…" The wand flicked feebly with a few sparks, as Weasley tried to hex Potter's head into swelling.

Voldemort stepped forward, plucking the wand out of Weasley's sweaty palms, before stuffing it into the man's back pocket. Weasley gave a start, looking at his empty hands with surprise, before scowling. "I was going to swell your head to the same size on the outside as the inside," he hiccupped.

"Did you just try to _hex_ me?" Potter said, face incredulous. With satisfaction, Voldemort noted that everyone in the pub had fallen silent, everyone was watching the spectacle. _Lovely. It would be all over the Prophet in the morning_. _Just perfect._

"Fuck you! You deserve to be cursed out of existence, you arrogant prick!" Weasley bellowed, before storming out on unsteady feet, and Potter was left with a hurt and confused expression on his face, the muttering of the crowd picking up again, filling the pub with hushed talk.

"What the hell…" Potter said, staring after Weasley.

Voldemort struggled to keep his face blank. _Merlin, such destruction he had wreaked on Weasley's brain. It was a wonder the man could speak at all. He had crushed his mind like an eggshell. Wondrous things would come out of this in the near future._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparition wards torn down with a crack of thunder is a tip-off to my favourite scene in one of my favourite Tomione stories. Does anyone recognize that feature? I can't believe I'm the only one who has a lovely image of a twenty-something Tom in my head after reading that particular scene. *grins*


	15. Like Silken Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione. 
> 
> Her name slithered through his brain like the sensual caress of cool silk on his skin, like a bolt of golden-brown, soft silk, a sheer fabric the colour of smoky Firewhisky draped over his naked body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, commenting and sending kudos! <3

Her trusting, pretty face was lit up by the most beautiful smile, as he stepped on his dignity and ground it into the dust by shaking hands with a sodding House-elf.

"Greetings, Mimsy," he said, his voice carefully modulated to not show his disgust and irritation. _Merlin, the thing should be grovelling before him, not be met as an equal. As if anyone was the equal of Lord Voldemort!_

"Hello, Tom Riddle! I's honoured by Master Mind Magician!" the House-elf squeaked, it's greenish eyes shining expectantly. The elf wore a muddy brown tea-cosy, with an embroidered, glaringly red rose on it. Dreadful, he thought, inwardly sneering at the colour combination.

"Mimsy has volunteered to join the testing," his witch explained with a fond smile. "She's one of the elves freed through the Ministry program, but she chose to go into service again after a few years. She has agreed to participate, knowing that you're looking for how to free all elves."

"I'm delighted," he said gravely, and the small, child-sized elf grinned at him and Hermione, looking slightly demented, sharp teeth showing between thin, greyish lips. He sighed, and continued: "You understand, Mimsy, I need to visit your mind. Wizards seldom enter the minds of House-elves, so I might use some time to familiarize myself. Will that be ok with you? I'm just going to take a look at your mind, I'm not going to do anything."

"Mimsy will be ok, Master! Mimsy has had wizards in her brain before," the elf said brightly, though it's hands shook slightly.

"He won't hurt you, Mimsy," Hermione said, comforting the small elf with a pat on its back, the elf looking gratefully at her with big, teary orbs.

"Here it goes," he said, producing his wand, taking the elf's hand for an added connection, casting " _Legilimens_!"

 _An elf's mind was a strange thing_ . It felt like entering a foreign country, where you didn't understand the rules on how to conduct yourself, where paths led you to dead ends instead to the main Apparition point you had expected, and where there was no way to interpret the memories you encountered. In his experience, human minds often organized themselves into well-known, recognisable features, like libraries, kitchens, buildings, shops or streets, markets or even complex cities. You rarely came across someone with a mind depicting a wilderness, a forest or the sea, he thought. In comparison, the House-elf's mind was a den, an underground maze, twisting and turning with strange, jarring jumps from place to place. _It was sickening, really_.

Then something odd happened. Mimsy's eyes widened impossibly, and her mind - _thank Merlin, not her mouth_ – shrieked: "You! You bad Master! You killed Mimsy's Miss!"

He frowned, getting a distorted image of a pale, thin figure, dressed in black, with fiery eyes, bad teeth and an unfortunate lack of a nose, grinning as a green light flashed, a sobbing House-elf, clutching the still, dead figure of a trim woman on the floor. The snake-like figure descended on the House-elf, whispering in a cloud of bad breath: " _Legilimens_."

A shock coursed through him, as he realized this was himself. _Shit. The House-elf had indeed met him, and recognized the touch of his mind_. Somehow, it was much worse to see this living memory of himself, rather than the very few pictures that existed of his snake-faced self. He had obviously avoided cameras, and no wonder, at that. That thing, that horrid, decrepit thing, was **_nothing_** like himself.

Casting frantically in his brain for what to do, to avoid detection, to avoid Granger finding out his identity, he saw no other choice. Clutching the small elf to him, he wordlessly dispatched a silent Avada directly into its body, the curse rolling through his body like a shimmering heat wave, withering the life away from the elf, the signature green flash was nullified by their bodily contact.

The elf slumped, and he stuttered, eyes artificially wide, as he looked at Hermione: "Gods, she's gone, it became too much, her heart…!"

His witch gasped, eyes quickly flooding, and she covered her pretty mouth with her hands, her mind screaming out so loud he could almost taste it, transmitting an overriding, strong feeling of sickening guilt.

Xxxx

Her sobs reverberated through the Grimmauld library, bouncing off the hard surfaces of the walls and windows, becoming slightly muffled as the sound met the thousands of books behind them. She was curled up into his lap, her puffy eyes hidden into the crook of her neck. Slowly, he stroked her back, trying to calm her down.

"It's my fault," she hiccuped again, "I shouldn't have pressured Mimsy into this, she didn't want to, and yet, she did it. She died because of me." His black silk shirt was already sopping wet from her tears, and she sniffled, shivering in his arms.

"Darling," he said to her, hiding his face into her wild hair, the unbidden intimacy of comforting someone making him extremely tense and uneasy, "darling, it isn't your fault. She had a heart attack, she was very old. The excitement was too much, love. Don't blame yourself."

"Yes," Potter chorused, "Hermione, you can't blame yourself. Tom's right, it would have happened anyway. You helped Mimsy so much with freeing her from the Avery family, and you know she was grateful."

_The Averys. Gods, what were the odds? He had invaded the mind of one, single elf, and the thing had been the property of one of his minions. And this Avery had been one of the several minions he had killed, too, sick bastard of a snake-face that he had been. Destroying his followers like that, it was so … unwise. So wasteful._

He shivered, remembering the skeletal, awful thing he had seen in the elf's memory. There was no way he was able to connect that image with himself. It seemed so unlikely that he'd ever allow himself to look that bad, even when so clearly unhinged and utterly crazy. He almost felt like he needed comfort, himself.

His witch sighed raggedly, and whispered: "I guess you're right, still, I feel so guilty. She trusted me."

"Of course she did," he said soothingly, "and she wanted to help you with the research project. This was just … an accident." _Yes, it was. The wrong elf, at the wrong time. Maybe the image of himself was distorted through the ravages of time, too. He just couldn't have been_...

Slowly, her sobs subsided, and she accepted the big chunk of chocolate that Potter had been trying to pressure her into eating for the last thirty minutes.

"It'll be alright, darling," he muttered, as she munched on the chocolate, head resting on his shoulder, the warmth of her soft body relaxing his tension, creating a distance to the spectre of himself that floated around his brain.

Xxxx

In general, Voldemort didn't mind a cold, hostile environment, but even he had to admit to himself that the Ministry Head meetings were rather icy. Shacklebolt was clearly in trouble, being covertly undermined by the powerful Head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, Jeanette Selwyn. She was an elderly witch, who had held the position for more than thirty years, and she was also widely suspected of being a secret, high-level Death Eater. However, no one had been able to prove anything. Though, from what he had gleaned from the mind of Lucius Malfoy, it was true, as Abraxas himself had recruited her sometime in the seventies, with a young Lucius in tow. Therefore, it was no surprise that Selwyn chose to oppose Shacklebolt vehemently.

Sipping his tea during a break in the meeting, he let his eyes roam over his Head colleagues. There were a total of seven Heads, plus the Minister himself. All of them were middle-aged or older, with Shacklebolt and himself as the youngest members. Right now, Shacklebolt was whispering with one of his supporters, Gawain Robard, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcements.

On the other hand, the Heads of the Transport, Regulation of Magical Creatures and Games and Sports were whispering among themselves, sometimes shooting a covert glance in Voldemort's direction.

In a way, it was troubling that those Department Heads seemed to oppose himself, though Voldemort wasn't surprised. After all, he had come out of nowhere, rising to power with lightning speed. Still, they had a secure base of alliances, while he only had his novel popularity, achievements and his magical strength. And he was gearing up to remove his staunchest supporter: the Minister himself.

 _Well_ , he shrugged to himself. _It wasn't as if he was a novice in power plays, and he had plans well underway for removing several of his Head colleagues before he'd take down Shacklebolt._

He nodded at Selwyn, who was peering shrewdly at him. She had to be close to ninety, her hair in an almost white bun, and her face wrinkled. Her eyes, though, were a sharp blue, and he felt sure she didn't miss much.

Giving her a flash of his best smile, he leaned closer to the old woman. "I hear you might have known my father," he purred, but made sure his expression was blank.

The woman swallowed, her eyes widening slightly, and she leaned in: "Come by my office after the meeting," she whispered. Straightening, she said out loud: "What are your views on the new goblin legislation motioned by the Regulation Department?"

He leaned back in the comfortable chair, still smiling. _Of course_. She was a Slytherin, through and through. He had just threatened her, and she had elegantly responded, by asking him what he thought of the work Hermione had campaigned for, trying to entrap him into supporting his girlfriend. _Silly woman, did she think him that inexperienced?_

Glancing at her through the corner of his eye, he could see she was slowly palming her wand as she looked at him, her brows furrowing. He picked up a stray thought from her: _Does he know anything? He must be neutralized._

The woman had led the Obliviater Headquarters for years before she ended up a Department Head, and he was quite sure she had taken advantage of her skills on several occasions. _Yes, he'd meet her later today in her office._ The witch would be in for a shock when she tried Obliviate Lord Voldemort. If she proved herself smart and faithful enough, she could regain her place as a useful follower. He could use an ally among the Ministry Heads. If not… _Well, old people did die at times, didn't they?_

"It's brilliant," he said slowly, turning his eyes back at her. "As you undoubtedly know, my Hermione has initiated the change. Therefore, I support it for personal reasons, and as such, I haven't been involved in my Department's assessment of this motion. My Deputy has made a careful, independent evaluation of how this would affect our work, and she concluded this might be beneficial."

Snapping his finger, he Summoned a Memo from the stack of paper in front of him. "Here it is, it's quite thorough I believe. Did you read it before the meeting? I didn't see any written output from your Department in the case file, though."

Selwyn scowled at him, pulling her woollen shawl tighter about her shoulders, and he almost laughed. Playing at being a bureaucrat was tedious and boring, but once in a while, like this, it could be fun.

Xxxx

“Mr. Malfoy! I had no idea you were coming too,” Selwyn said, sitting behind her desk, looking old and frail, a shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders. “You’ll excuse me for not getting up, my knees aren’t what they used to be.” 

Malfoy sauntered in, excitement almost radiating for him. _He knew they were going to confront the old witch, and the man was eager to see what happened, to serve as Bonder in a new Unbreakable Bond._

Nodding at Voldemort, she began with a practised smile: “Mr. Riddle, our new wonderboy in wizarding politics…” 

He slammed Silencing wards around the office, locking the door behind him with a flick of his wand. Dropping the friendly veneer of ‘Tom Riddle’, he stared down at Selwyn, eyes cold and calculating. “You may address me as Lord. Bad knees or no, you will kneel for your Lord.” 

Xxxx

Burning with the high of having vanquished the Selwyn woman, the dark pleasure of seeing her grovel on the floor before him, begging forgiveness, had locked his face into a permanent grin, or at least, it felt that way. Reluctantly, fear shining in her eyes, she had removed her glamour over the Dark Mark on her left arm. Her promise to obey had felt so good, all the sweeter because he had forced her obeisance, and Malfoy had almost been cackling with glee. 

"You're in a good mood?" his witch said, smiling fondly at him, before she leaned over, pecking his lips. He grabbed her head, and drew her into a long, slow kiss right there at the table in the Grounded Bean. People were whispering and staring, the afternoon crowd getting their caffeine shots before they headed home or to the pub.

"Yes," he said breathlessly, when she pulled free, her warm, brown eyes promising him wicked things, making his cock instantly hard. "Come, let's head home," he added, downing his espresso before grabbing his witch, Apparating directly into his bedroom at Grimmauld Place.

Pushing her towards the bed, she tried to say something, but it was muffled by him claiming her mouth, exploring her lips, coercing her tongue out to meet his. Pulling a handful of her hair into his fist, he took control over her head, bending her body backwards over the bed frame.

She moaned into his mouth, and he just couldn't wait, Divesting them both of their clothes, pushing her down on the bed. _Yes, the thrill of dominating her, taking her, showing her that she belonged to him rightfully…_ _She was perfect, she could take this part of him too, enjoy it even, receiving and welcoming his power._ He groaned, as her hands stroked his chest, playing with one of his nipples, and he snaked his head down to her luscious breasts, pert buds standing to his attention as he wrapped his mouth around one of them.

"Gods, Tom!" she gasped, back arching up to push her tits closer to his face, and he laved his tongue around her nipple, alternating with suckling, as his hand kneaded the other breast. His cock was already dripping with precum, making a small, sticky trail on her thigh as he moved south. He found her wet slit ready for him, and he spread her out, licking her clit rock hard, relishing the taste of her pussy on his tongue, taking his time to explore her sweet lips and tight hole, before he shoved three fingers hard into her opening, making her give a shrill outcry: "Sweet Morgana, Tom, I'm coming already - ah, gods, please, oh!"

He held her hips down to continue licking her sex, her body thrashing on the bed, hips undulating as she convulsed around his fingers. Wiping his mouth, he crept forward, crouching over her, before pushing his way in, his hips snapping as his cock forced entry into that tight, sopping hole, sheathing him into blissful glory as he thrust hard into her. Her legs came up, locking around his arse, and she bucked her hips to meet his thrusts.

"Fuck, Hermione," he groaned, as she clenched her pussy around him, squeezing his cock. Letting himself go, he pounded into her, her gasps coming in time with his thrusts, the throbbing in his cock rising to an unbearable level. As the dam broke, he shivered uncontrollably, his cock jerking madly, and he lost himself into a shattering bliss.

Xxxx

 _Hermione_. Her name slithered through his brain like the sensual caress of cool silk on his skin, like a bolt of golden-brown, soft silk, a sheer fabric the colour of smoky Firewhisky draped over his naked body. Swallowing, he nuzzled into her hair. She was sound asleep, exhausted after their passionate lovemaking, but he was wide awake.

 _Hermione_. Gods, he always thought of people by their last name, never their first name. It was a symbolic thing, he knew that, a demarcation of the distance he felt to other people. No one was worthy of Lord Voldemort referring to them by their first name. Yes, out loud, he might call people by their first name to manipulate them, but never, ever in his head.

 _Hermione_. She had been 'Granger' in his head until tonight, but no more, and it wasn't a conscious choice. She was an exception.

 _Hermione_. Shivers went down his spine. _What did this signify?_

Xxxx

The windswept, wild hair of his witch, _Hermione_ , was tickling her face, making her scrunch up her nose, her hands futilely trying to wipe it away. The moor in a desolate part of Exeter was far from any farms or dwellings, and the heather was still greyish-green, not blooming for two months yet. The wind rapidly drove clouds across the sky, and the moon peeked out between the drifting clouds. Around them, the night-time air was filled with earthy smells of green things growing.

He almost sighed. His hair had never behaved like that, and he wondered why she just didn't pin it up. _Though, she did look adorable. What the fuck? Did he just think the word adorable? He hadn't thought it even was a part of his vocabulary!_

Shaking his head to clear his mind, he quickly found the explanation. _His head was all messed up because the great sex they just had. In fact, his legs were still rather shaky._

"Raise your Apparition wards again, with the exact same wand movement I showed you. The wards will be stronger that way," he instructed.

Obediently, she swung her wand in a grand arch, casting: " _Non Apparere_!" The ward shimmered into being, quickly fading, but he could tell by the silvery colour that she had, indeed, managed his alteration of the wand movement at first try.

"You're good," he said appraisingly, "you do take to things very quickly." She beamed at him, and he almost sniggered at her apparent hunger for praise. _Much like his own_. The randomly fleeting thought made his scowl. _Stop it_ ! he thought angrily, _no one is like me. You have gotten laid with hundreds of witches, why are you becoming witless, all of a sudden?_

"Get ready, you might want to shield your ears," he said with an outward smile he didn't feel.

Shielding his own ears, he jabbed his wand in her direction, putting force behind the thrust as he shouted: " _Dilacerant_!"

A thunderclap broke over them, shockingly loud, and her wards disintegrated on the spot. Wide-eyed, she stared at him, and even through his shielding, he could feel his ears ringing.

"Now, you try to tear down mine."

Xxxx

Sharing a look with her over the edge of his espresso, he turned another page in the Prophet. Everyone was covertly ogling them, and he enjoyed the attention. She didn't though, looking uncomfortable and flustered by being monitored so closely by the public.

They had made the front page, naturally, but also pages three, four, five, six, seven and eight with his revelation. The pictures of him, Hermione and Delphini were good, showing them like a happy couple with a toddler, pushing her on a swing, reading to her, and in one picture, he threw her up into the air, the big, happy smile on the little girl's face matching his own grin. And the headline was almost too funny: " ** _Voldemort's Little Princess Revealed!_** "

Delphini had been on her best behaviour with the journalist and the photographer, following the instructions he gave directly into her mind to the letter, and she had proven herself as a sweet, intelligent child. Nodding to the barista bringing him another cup, the lovely smell of freshly brewed coffee drifting into his nostrils, he leaned back into the chair. _Idly, he wondered if he could employ the man directly to the Minister’s office when he took over. Well, never mind, he’d deal with that later._

He had successfully created the image of the kind, loving older brother with a famous, loving, intelligent heroine by his side, taking care of the cute, clever orphan. Telling the journalist that he was trying to get everything in order for Delphini to live with him had been a great choice.

 _This was it. Now, everyone would think he was compassionate, as well as powerful and handsome. This was how people liked to see their leader: A honourable, strong man who shouldered his responsibilities without questions. He was going to pretend to be the perfect wizard to rule their world, all the way – until he wasn't._ Voldemort hid his sinister smile into his cup, draining the second espresso quickly.

Xxxx

Again, he was following Potter around, looking for Weasley. The wizard had proven, broken vessel that he was, rather adept at hiding, more so than he'd expected. It only showed that Weasley could have been useful in another capacity. _Shame he had been perfect for this role too, then_.

"Bloody hell, what's he doing in Manchester anyway?" Potter grumbled, as they exited the third pub in the city's wizarding district, Smith's Lane. Two hours ago, they had received a tip from an Auror colleague, who had been on a mission in Manchester. Now, they were searching an area with crooked, cobbled streets, rundown houses and seedy shops and brothels. The old timber buildings had once been stately, but now, broken windows and garish signs signalled a lack of care and unwholesome activities.

Potter stopped short, giving him a glance, and groaned. "Gods, I hoped the tip referred to a fucking pub. Not a place like that," he said, pointing down the street.

The tip had said: 'The Red Rebels, Manchester.' Squinting at the sign, Voldemort saw the flashing sign with ten moving, naked, red-headed girls dancing shamelessly.

His lips twitched in amusement, but he said with a mock gravity: "A brothel. Fancy, what are the chances he's stayed put for the last three hours?"

Potter gave an uneasy grimace, and said: "I'm afraid the chances are good, if he can pay."

"What are we waiting for, then?" Voldemort said briskly, before he started walking towards the brothel.

"Wait!" Potter said urgently. "We can't go into a place like that, we'll be recognized. The rumour mill will be off the charts. Let's put up some Glamours."

Nodding, Voldemort supposed that was a smart move. Personally, he would have preferred an Obliviate, but Potter would probably balk, as it was illegal. Instead, he Charmed his looks to be a blonde, tall wizard with blue eyes, while Potter became shorter, stockier with brown eyes.

"There," Potter whispered. "We'll have to pretend to be customers. What the fuck do we do?"

He almost arched an eyebrow at Potter's inexperience. _Had the man never visited a brothel before? Not that he had ever needed to pay for sex, himself, but he had been around_. Clearing his throat, he said carefully: "As we have no interest in cheating on our witches and we're trying to find a certain someone, we should ask for opportunities to view others engaging, don't you think?"

Potter's eyes widened. "Oh fuck, you can do that? I mean, do the other customers know they are being watched?"

Shrugging, he said: "I have no idea. I guess some might enjoy it, while others are in the dark."

"And how do you know?" Potter asked, furrowing his brow, before he blushed, averting his eyes and said hastily: "Don't answer that, no, seriously, don't."

He smirked at the young man's innocence, but felt compelled to answer to defend his pride: "To put it straight, I have never paid for it, no."

Potter glanced at him, taking in his face, and said in an embarrassed, amused tone: "I guess someone like you wouldn't have to."

Shaking his head – _the conversation was absurd, he shouldn't stoop so low as to defend the morality of his sex life, at least not to someone like Potter_ – he pointed at the house and said: "Shall we, then?"

They knocked on a door with a red heart, the paint flaking from age and disrepair. The door creaked open, and a goblin peeked out: "Yes, gentlemen?" it said, scrutinizing them carefully.

"We're here for a bit of a show," Voldemort said confidently. "Watching, primarily."

The goblin nodded, opening the door and said a curt: "Enter."

The hall was gloomy, with a small booth, an open door into a small parlour, and with several doors closed doors leading from the hall.

"You pay upfront," the goblin said, taking the seat behind the booth. "Seven Galleons for watching a girl alone, ten for watching a girl with a customer."

"That's…" Potter started to say, obviously thinking this was expensive, but Voldemort cut in.

"Deal, if we can survey all whores and customers before we choose. None, if we do not find anyone to our liking."

The goblin's big, bush brows frowned, but said: "Deal, a quick peek, and eleven Galleons each if you choose to watch someone."

He motioned them closer to the booth, pulling out a cloudy glass ball. Tapping it with his finger, it showed a tiny room with a large bed. They could see a black-haired, balding man on top of a woman, hips pumping erratically.

"Boring, next," Voldemort called out, and the gobbling tapped the ball again, showing a blonde woman on her knees, head bobbing as she sucked the cock of a graying, portly fellow.

"Next!" Potter called out impatiently, and after glancing at six customers, they got lucky. Ron Weasley was fucking a girl violently from behind, the girl looking like she was barely seventeen. Her face was contorted into a grimace, like she was experiencing something unpleasant, and Potter gasped: "Merlin, is he fucking her arse?"

The goblin consulted a sheet on his desk, and nodded: "Customer paid for all holes, and rights to beat, hex and curse the whore," he said.

Voldemort raised an eyebrow, and he turned to Potter, saying: "I don't know about you, but I don't wish to see this." Potter nodded his head vigorously, looking faintly nauseous.

Putting two Gallons on the counter, Voldemort said: "Thanks for letting us browse. None were to our liking, though. Have a profitable evening."

Well outside, Potter said: "I hadn't thought… He wouldn't…. This isn't like him…" Threading his fingers through his hair, he whispered unhappily: "Merlin, what happened to Ron? Why does he do these things?"

"I don't know," Voldemort said, putting a sympathetic expression on his face, wondering if he should pat Potter's back. "I don't know him like you do," he said carefully, "but I do know he said some disturbing things to Hermione before they broke up. This might have been a long time coming." Cocking his head as he assessed the other man's distress, he reached out a hand, patting him slowly on the shoulder.

Potter looked at him, gratefully, and said: "What do we do now?"

"Wait right here. When he leaves, we follow him and confront him," Voldemort said, and Disillusioned himself and the young wizard.

Xxxx

They waited forty-five minutes, the shadows of evening creeping up on them, before Weasley emerged. The red-head looked curiously satisfied, but one hand touched his other fist gingerly, like it was sore.

Voldemort grimaced sourly. _Trust Weasley with so little imagination as to beat up a woman with his fists. The man deserved anything he could throw his way, just for being an unimaginative sod_.

Sauntering down the street, Weasley ducked into a nearby, seedy pub.

"Come," Potter said urgently, "we'll talk to him inside."

"Wait," Voldemort said, trying to get the young hot-head into behaving sensibly, just like he had before. "We need to cast a Glamour again, this area might be unsafe…" Scowling, as Potter was not listening, instead running down the street, he followed.

_Gods, did he have to protect Potter again? That daft, impulsive little shit, couldn't he stop to think of the dangers? Why hadn't his deranged self managed to kill Potter, when the young wizard clearly was too stupid to assess any kind of risk?_

Grumbling, he ducked his head under the low door-frame, entering a few seconds after Potter. The two Golden boys were already quarrelling, quite loud with wands out in the middle of the floor, and people were staring. _Fuck. This place was just the kind of pub the Saviour of the Wizarding World should stay away from_.

The place reeked of dark magic, he could tell, and the walls held old blood stains. This had clearly been the site of several killings, and by the slightly oppressive atmosphere, he suspected that there had been ritual killings as well. There weren't many people inside, just a handful, but those who were, looked angry, palming their wands. Silently, he cast a strong protective shield around Potter – and Weasley, for good measure. _It wouldn't do if some vindictive ex-Death Eater cocked up his schemes by killing Weasley._

Striding confidently towards them, he saw heads turning towards him, and some started to mutter angrily. A small witch even rose from her chair, leaning forward with a scowl, nodding to someone behind him.

Suddenly, a hard blow hit him in the back, the impact knocking the wind out of him. He fell to his knees, gasping in surprise, and as the red light of a Stunner exploded around his ears, everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooops. Too confident, Tom? ;-) 
> 
> Apparition wards torn down is a tip-off to the story "Somewhere in Time" by Serpent in Red. It's a wonderful, very convoluted time-travel story. If you haven't read it, you should. It's fun. :-)   
> The scene I'm referencing is at the end of chapter 52/ beginning of chapter 53 (yes, this is a long one!).


	16. Clapbacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione interrupted his pleasant thoughts, by saying: "So, have you given any thoughts to revenge?"
> 
> His head snapped up in shock. Had she read his mind?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Voldemort - the indignity of being attacked...! Such a blow to his inflated ego. *grins*

_Pounding. Aching. Throbbing_. His head hurt like hell, and though his eyes were closed, he was acutely aware of the light being much too bright. His whole body felt like a Giant had wrung it up and chucked him into a wall, but first, it had paid close attention to breaking every bone in his fingers and legs.

Groaning softly, he blearily opened one eye. _Where was he? What had happened?_

"Oh, you're awake!" the voice of his little witch said, sounding both tearful and relieved. "I was so worried, though they said you'd be alright."

 _Alright? Had he been sick, or hurt, or_ … Slowly, things began to fall into place. _He had run after Potter, who was haring into a pub after Weasley, and then…_

The ache in his head started to fade into the background, as his anger grew, thrumming in his veins. _He had been attacked, incapacitated, thanks to fucking Harry Potter! He, Lord Voldemort, had been concentrating on keeping his plot pieces on the board, not letting them be destroyed by some random, bitter Death Eater, and, thus, he had neglected his own safety. Fuck, his own feeling of strength and invincibility had almost felled him, once again. Was he becoming as stupid as his snake-faced self had been? He could have been killed!_

Shuddering at the thought, he snapped: "Where am I?" seeing the unfamiliar room. _Merlin, it looked like… Gods, the indignity of it!_

"St. Mungo's," she said soothingly.

 _Double fuck! How many people had seen him brought in?_ "How did I end up here?" he said grimly.

"Harry won't say much, he only had some minor bruises by the way, but he Apparated into the reception with you, unconscious, and with Ron. It was yesterday."

 _Saved by Harry sodding Potter! What had the world come to?_ Grumbling, he muttered: "How was I cursed? I just remember everything going black."

"Harry says you saved him and Ron, by casting a shield over both of them. Harry doesn't recognize it," she said, her voice curious, "and the shield hasn't evaporated yet, it's still there. But you were hit by a Stunner, and then cursed quite severely. Harry fought his way through to get to you, ultimately Side-Alonging both you and Ron."

"Where's Weasley, was he hurt?" _Weasley should be ok, like Potter, with the Praesidio Protego he had cast on the two imbeciles, though Weasley was so far gone he might have gotten himself hurt anyway._

"He's here as well, in the room across the hall, though he only Splinched himself as he was resisting Harry's Side-Along. When you arrived here, he was screaming something that Harry won't repeat, though it's all in the paper. Stupid git," she mumbled. Clearing her throat, she continued with a small catch in her voice: "The pictures … Oh, Tom, I'm so relieved you are alright. It looked dreadful, blood everywhere, and….," her voice trailed off.

 _In the paper. With pictures. Just fucking glorious!_ The rage started to pound in his body, drowning out the pain in his body.

"What kind of curses was I hit with?" he repeated.

She shifted, swallowed, and winced. "Several. The pictures were … awful. If you are in pain, it's probably because of the Skele-Gro. They had to regrow the bones in your hands and legs." Her mouth set in a grim line, and she looked at him, an unfamiliar, hard look in her eyes. _Like she was angry too_.

"Which curses?" His anger was reaching the boiling point - _those people would suffer, suffer like they had never_ …

"Erm, well." She took a deep breath, and then she rattled off: "The Conjunctivitis, the Leg-Locker, Jelly-Fingers as well as Jelly-Legs, the Ear-Shrivelling, several Severing Charms causing a significant blood loss and …" her voice fell to a whisper … "the Hair-Loss Curse."

"Hair loss?" His voice was incredulous, and his hands shot up, feeling short stubbles, a clear sign that his hair was growing back.

Then, it hit him. _He had probably been photographed, without hair, and that would make it all the more easier for the entire wizarding world to see him as Lord Voldemort. And, though he knew it was silly and vain, it smarted that people had seen him like that: Knocked out, helpless, hairless, like a snake, like the monster his other self had been_ …

Humiliation and rage boiled over, and he shouted: "Merlin's bloody balls!" With a blast of involuntary magic, the glass panes in the window shattered, and cracks appeared in the walls, spidering down from ceiling to floor.

Hermione gaped, looking at him with wide eyes, but her wand was in her hand after a split second, and she shouted: " _Reparo! Stabilias Tenere!_ " several times, pointing it at the various damages.

He sat still, hands twisting the sheets, trying to breathe slowly in and out of his nose, trying to contain the thrumming darkness welling up inside, needing release, holding back, feeling the build up of fury taking over, like a bomb set to go off, before he tried to squeeze the pressure back down into the pit of his stomach but failing, the fire shooting upwards, smoke whirling up from the sheet between his hands, an acrid smell of cheap, burning cotton filling the room…

Drawing a quick breath, Hermione shot a quick " _Aguamenti_ " at the sheets, drenching his bed, staring at him with a shocked, but curious expression.

"What?" he snarled, barely keeping the reins on his anger.

She whispered, stuttering slightly in her surprise: "I … I … I thought ...I saw a … red flash… in your eyes. Just for a moment, it was barely there."

Groaning, he hid his face. _Great. Bald, and with red eyes. Now, what's next? Cover photo on Witch Weekly as he lay naked in the hospital bed? Fuck, how had everything ended up like this? Babysitting Potter's saviour act for Ronald Weasley was supposed to be a simple mission!_

Bitterly, he grunted, trying to stay in his act: "Maybe it runs in the family, like the baldness."

Surprisingly, he heard a low, husky chuckle, and the silly little Gryffindor said: "As long as your nose stays on, I don't mind."

He lifted his head, seeing a cheeky grin on her face. _She wasn't afraid. How could it be? If he got angry, then the world quaked before him. It had always been so, at the Orphanage after he mastered some of his power, at Hogwarts with his followers, after graduation with his minions… Why wasn't she scared_? His anger subsided and his own curiosity grew, as she continued, reasoning with him:

"Tom, I can see why you are angry. You've been attacked while you did your best to protect others, and this situation feels awful and like so much public humiliation. I get that, it's perfectly understandable. But it's not only a bad thing, you know. _Accio_ the Prophet!"

The paper came flying in, bumping the door open, landing neatly in her lap, and she handed it over to him, while discreetly drying up his bed with a whispered spell, making him feel dry and warm again. What he read made his mood improve, slightly, though the pictures were as bad as she had said.

The front page read: " ** _Heroes and saviours_ :** _The saviour of the Wizarding world, Harry Potter, and his best friend Tom Riddle, the late Lord Voldemort's son, saved one another in a dramatic attack in Manchester yesterday. The two of them were on a mission to help and find down-on-his-luck war hero Ron Weasley, when they were attacked in a pub by dark wizards._  
 _  
\- Tom selflessly Shielded me and Ron, says Potter, and he did so to the detriment of himself. He's a true hero, because there was a powerful Cruciatus coming my way, bouncing right off the shield. Getting him and Ron into safety was the least I could do…"_

He nodded, realizing Hermione was right. _It actually wasn't bad, he was lauded for an act of heroism. This would endear him to the public. Selfless heroism_ … He almost chuckled.

Slowly, he read further, and the paper speculated on Weasley's erratic behaviour and the way he had yelled at Potter in public on two occasions. Frowning, he saw a shorter story where an unnamed Ministry source speculated if Voldemort's magical test scores were accurate: " _Because how else would Riddle have been overcome by a few, shoddy old Death Eaters, if he hasn't been cheating? Look, if the man can't even defend himself against a couple of drunkards, there's no way he's the strongest wizard since You-Know-Who! This only proves that Shacklebolt was just starstruck when he appeared out of the blue, he truly doesn't deserve a Head position in the Ministry_."

It was not surprising, but still worrisome, that his enemies in the Ministry would swarm to this case, like sharks smelling blood. _Though, they had no idea who they were dealing with_. _And those fuckwits in Manchester_ … He couldn't stop a sinister grin curling around his mouth, as he thought what he'd do to them. _Torture was much too good. He'd flay them alive, boil their eyeballs out of their sockets, tear their entrails apart with a_ …

Hermione interrupted his pleasant thoughts, by saying: "So, have you given any thoughts to revenge?"

His head snapped up in shock. _Had she read his mind?_

She gave him a cocky, little smile that made uncontrollable shivers run down his spine, and her chocolate brown eyes was still hard, glinting with something that _thrilled_ him, and she continued: "Because, I know the Aurors won't catch them, though I'm sorry to say so. If they didn't after the war, there's no way they'll manage now. Even Harry says so. But I was thinking, in my Department, we've managed to get hold of Unicorn bogies, sampled from a herd of Hungarian Unicorn infected with the Sparklosanct Skin Disease. That is, if you're interested."

She leaned back in her chair, looking incredibly smug and satisfied.

"And?" he questioned, intrigued by her attitude, not to mention those long, beautiful curls that snaked around her shoulders, one trailing down into her cleavage. _Sparklosanct? He had never heard about that_. And suddenly he was excited. _Would her dark streak surface again? Was she planning revenge for him? Would she do that? For him?_

"If a person ingests even a tiny amount, they end up very much sparkly too. Like a Muggle disco light, and you can't Glamour it. Those people will never sneak up on anyone again. Ever," she said, grinning with malicious amusement.

He barked a laugh, grinning back at his little, devious, delicious witch. _She was amazing. Perfect, really. And surprisingly dark for such a good, little Miss Perfect of a war heroine_.

"The only hindrance is to get hold of them," she said, smiling back at him, "but I don't think that would be a problem. The bartender and the owner will be easy to find, and they probably know them well. With your power of Legilimency, you could just pick their brains to get the identity and the hiding places of the others. Then, we serve them a nice drink, and no one would be the wiser. And … well, their assassin days will be over. And they will never have to light a candle again in their life."

Something warm and unfamiliar moved in his chest, like a cat stretching after a long nap in the sun, making him feel strangely fuzzy inside. _Revenge. For him. And she had thought of everything, even when he had cocked it up for himself_. Gruffly, he said: "Come here," and he opened his arms to her, getting an armful of laughing, wicked, sweet-smelling and vindictive witch in his lap.

Xxxx

In the morning, after a night spent in Hermione’s bed, her “nursing” him back to health, telling him to lie back and just enjoy the amazing blow job she gave him, they decided to let Rita Skeeter out of her beetle form.

The witch screamed like a banshee as her body stretched out, growing into a human again. _Voldemort supposed, muscles would become cramped when an Animagus was stuck in their form for a longer period of time._

His witch looked impatiently at Skeeter, before handing her a pain-relief potion. The blonde gulped it down greedily, and after a short while, she managed to sit up.

"Dear Rita," Hermione said with a saccharine smile. "We've had this talk before, but you are still untrustworthy. Therefore, _I've_ decided for _you_ to take an Unbreakable Vow."

" _You_ have decided… !" the journalist grumbled, looking shiftily around in Hermione’s cramped living room, books lying about everywhere, a rumpled blanket on the sofa, as well as a couple of dirty mugs scattered on the table. 

He sat back, content to let his devious little witch handle this, watching her with a small smile.

"Oh, you will. Or else, I'll Obliviate you into believing you are a Muggle," Hermione said blithely.

"Hah! You wouldn't dare," Skeeter snorted, but uncertainty flickered in her eyes.

"Try me." Hermione almost whispered the words, but her eyes glittered with a malice that made his pulse race. _Gods, she was magnificent. She was…_

Skeeter swallowed. "What do I have to promise?"

"You will never write another word about me, Tom, Harry or Ginny. You will not help other journalists by gathering gossip or researching - if you do that sort of thing at all, _research_ , I mean - in cases where we are mentioned. You are simply to lay off any piece of writing involving the four of us."

"And Delphini," he shot in, and Hermione nodded.

"And Delphini, Tom's sister. Just lay off our families."

Hermione slowly palmed her wand, still with that sinister look in her eyes. For himself, he couldn’t help grinning, and he supposed, he didn’t look all that _nice._

Skeeter stared at them, tugging nervously at her earlobe, before she quickly said:

"Yes. I promise."

"Wonderful," Hermione purred, making shivers race his spine. He rose from his chair, reveling in the resulting small flinch from Skeeter, and pulled out his wand.

"Remember, love, she must also promise to not say a word about the bond."

"Ah, yes, that too," Hermione said.

Skeeter nodded, before stretching out her arm. Hermione clasped her hand tightly, and he put the tip of his wand to their joined hands. As Hermione asked the Vows, and Skeeter responded, thin, white tendrils shot out of his wand, curling around Skeeter's arm, sinking into her skin with a deadly finality.

When they were done, Skeeter huffed. "The two of you …" she said bitterly. "If people knew…"

"Now, they won't," Hermione said triumphantly, "as you will not be spreading any more lies about us. I wish you a more productive career, Skeeter, and I hope you'll write decent pieces in the future, using your talent to further our society."

Voldemort almost sniggered by her righteous tone. _Like she hadn't trapped the woman, held her in captivity in Animagus form for a while, then blackmailed her into an Unbreakable Vow. His lovely witch was by far much more dark than she would admit to._

Xxxx

In the Head meeting later on, he was met with smug, arched eyebrows by his enemies, as well as genuine concern and a pat on the back from Shacklebolt. The Selwyn woman merely nodded at him with a blank expression, not giving anything away. She had her orders, and would sit still until he said otherwise. Still, she shuddered slightly as he swept past her and sat down beside her. The witch wasn't likely to forget the way he had reminded her of her vows.

As the meeting went on, it was clear that the Heads of Transport, Creatures and Games thought him weakened, as they not-so-subtly challenged him everytime he opened his mouth, either by interrupting him, or just rolling their eyes, talking amongst themselves.

He gritted his teeth, outwardly remaining calm, but on the inside, he gleefully remembered that he had inserted a solid dose of new information into Rita Skeeter’s mind for her to act upon. _The days for these three wizards were numbered, indeed. Tomorrow would be a good day, and tonight, he and Hermione were going back to Manchester. Yes, things were looking up._

Xxxx 

After the Head meeting, Shacklebolt approached him, almost whispering: "Tom, a word of advice. You can't let those buggers get away with that sort of behaviour. You need to garner their respect, or else they'll just… Well, you aren't a politician, but you'll have to learn, quickly, to survive."

For once, his mask fell completely, and he shot the Minister a contemptuous look, not quite believing his own ears, shaking his head with an arrogant toss. Shacklebolt furrowed his brows, like he had seen something he didn't understand, something he didn't like, maybe even something he recognized, but couldn't quite place.

"Trust me," he rasped out, boring his eyes into the Minister, "I don't see them as a threat. Thanks for the advice, but I wasn't born yesterday."

Xxxx

The pub was just as seedy as he remembered. Something crunched under his shoes, as he stepped over the threshold, and the floor was sticky, smelling of spilled beer and liquor. Hermione had Glamoured herself into looking like an old hag, while he appeared to be a small, wiry, old wizard, face hidden by the prerequisite, long beard. Stopping in front of the counter, he wheezed: "A Firewhisky, and make it snappy!"

The bartender spat at him, showing his bad, yellow teeth as he sneered, and shambled over to a shelf at the back, collecting a non-descriptive bottle that probably contained the worst kind of moonshine. The small hag stood beside him, peering at the room with a suspicious look, wrinkling her over-large nose. As the brownish liquid splashed into a dirty glass, he leaned forward over the counter, silently Silencing the bartender, before forcing his way into his mind.

 _Rotten_. That was the only word he could think of. The man's mind was a midden heap, fear, abuse and small-scale theft and violence permeating everything. Staring panicky at him with widened eyes, the bartender stood still, locked into place by the power of his Legilimency. Voldemort felt his lips curl in contempt as the man's nostrils started bleeding, his mind fighting the strain as Voldemort pushed further into his mind, but to no avail. There it was: names, homes, places, families and even blood status of the three wizards that had hexed him.

With a satisfied snort, Voldemort Obliviated him, before he grabbed the hag's arm, and walked out of that little hell hole with his witch in tow, smirking as he lobbed a small curse into a corner. The pub would be out of business in hours, and they could tear down the building for all he cared. The smell created by his curse would follow this house to the end of time, making it inhabitable. _Midden heap indeed._

Xxxx

Come morning, he read the paper in a very good mood, the news being exactly as he wanted it, while downing his three espressos at the Grounded Bean as he admired Hermione's tits. She wore a thin, rose-coloured silky blouse clinging to her curves, and as he stared at her, she blushed prettily and he could tell her nipples hardened. Idly, he noted she had pushed her cup of Americano away, like she didn't intend to finish it. 

"Let's have lunch together, in my office," he said impulsively, giving her a wicked grin.

She blushed even darker, but smiled back, her tongue playing with her bottom lip: "Do I need to bring something, or will you provide me with everything I need?"

He pursed his lips, giving her a calculating look, before he nodded: "Everything. You'll get all you ever dreamt of, witch."

"In that case, I accept," she said primly, but her eyes were dark and full of sin, making his spine tingle.

Xxxx

The Head meeting was in chaos, and he sat still, observing how it played out. _Gods, this was so much fun. Causing chaos felt just like home to him, he was almost touched by the display they put on because of him._

"How the fuck could you be this stupid? Not to mention dishonest?" Shacklebolt raged, the tall man standing at the end of the table, towering over the slumped form of the Transport Head, Michael McClenmore. "Giving your son a job fresh out of Hogwarts, then give him a raise to the salary level of a senior official? And then you haggle a job for your niece into St. Mungo's, in return promising the Head of Potion Accidents a job for his daughter?"

Spittle almost flecked from the Minister's mouth, and the man's chest was heaving underneath his garish red robes, his large fists clenching his wand. "Tell me, are you insane? Did you forget all about the changes we made in this government after the war? Do you even know the meaning of the word 'nepotism'? You'll be leaving this administration today, and you can be grateful that I'll allow you fifteen minutes to pack!"

Voldemort tapped his lips, closely monitoring the man's buddies, The Heads of Games and Creatures, as they nervously shifted on their chairs. Beside him, Selwyn mouthed to them as he had instructed: "You're next."

The two men's eyes widened, and they shared a quick look between them. Now, they were scared, but for all the wrong reasons. Sadly for them, Malfoy had everything ready to go tomorrow, then. _They would fall so hard, and with three Heads down, Shacklebolt's fall would be inevitable_.

As they left the meeting, the media was swarming the Atrium, and there was two factions of full-fledged activists, one party clamouring for scouring the Ministry for nepotism and favours, and the other calling for what they dubbed a "family-friendly" society, allowing people to take care of their own, helping their young.

The reporters descended on the Minister and the Department Heads, shouting: "What kind of action will the Ministry take to clean out nepotism in your ranks? Did you know about this before? Why has this been allowed?"

The group of Department Heads tried to push through the crowd of reporters and angry spectators, and Voldemort idly wondered about how easily they would scatter if he just used a small _Expulso_ or a well-placed _Disintegration Curse_. He almost sniggered by the thought of sending up his signature spell, the _Morsmordre_. **That** would clear out the Atrium in minutes, if not seconds.

A tall, young, blonde fellow stepped right in front of him, and he stopped, choosing a polite response instead of shoving him aside.

"Do you support the concerns of the public in this case?" the man said confidently, quill poised at the ready for taking quotes.

"I do," he said gravely, "nepotism should be a thing of the past, because people should qualify for positions at their own merits, not those of their family. I think this is a very grave situation, and I trust the Minister will spare no efforts in getting to the bottom of this. "

A nearby activist, a young woman, shouted: "Fuck you, Riddle, you have no family to speak of! You're merely furthering your own interests in this, just like you accuse us of doing!"

The reporter said with a glint in his eye, nose twitching at thought of even more conflict and drama: "How would you answer the accusations of Miss Rosier over there? She's from a respected, Pure-Blood family."

He snorted out loud, derisively, and replied glibly: "Thank Merlin for that fact. I expect Miss Rosier to be very happy about my lack of family too."

The reporter laughed out loud, as well as several bystanders, while the witch in question rolled her eyes accusingly at him. Finally, he was able to slip back to the elevators and his office, leaving the media havoc to the Minister.

Xxxx

The door to his office closed with an audible click, and his witch sauntered up to him, stretching her luscious body enticingly as he pulled down the blinds in his office with a flick of his wand.

"I was told I'd get all I ever wanted in here," she said, purring seductively.

"You're right, come here, my sweet," he said, eyes admiring her shape as she approached. She still wore that tight, thin blouse, but her trousers from earlier on had been Transfigured into a narrow black skirt, with sheer, black tights and high heels.

Playfully, she put one leg up on a chair, showing him that those tights actually were stockings, the lace at the top peeking through as the hem up her skirt dragged upwards. His eyes were glued to her hand, as she slowly circled her thigh, inching the hem of her skirt up, revealing the milky skin of her thighs.

His mouth felt dry, and his cock stood to attention, fighting for room in his trousers. _Gods, she was so_ …

She licked her lips slowly, and with her other hand, she palmed her breast, playing with a nipple.

Swallowing, he realized she no longer wore a bra, the dark, pink areola showing through the thin silk, the nipples straining against the fabric.

Pulling her skirt up to her hip, she said mock-innocently: "Ooops, I must have forgotten my knickers today, would you know?" The sight of the white swell of her arse drew his attention, and she looked so fucking delicious with the black lace and straps from her suspenders encasing her hips. She swung her hips towards him, opening her legs slightly, and he could see her pussy with dark curls, slightly parted to reveal the pink, shiny lips. She was wet, he could smell it, and he almost groaned at the thought that she must have been aroused in her office, Transfiguring her clothing, planning this little show for _him_.

"Indeed," he said, voice raspy with desire, his cock throbbing in his trousers. _He wanted to throw her down on his desk and ravage her, to pound into her as hard as he could_. Instead, he forced himself to sit still, replying coolly with an arched eyebrow: "Such a bad girl. I think you need to be punished. Come here!" he patted his lap authoritatively.

She pouted, one finger on her lips, but her eyes lit up, and with a teasing sway to her hips, she moved towards him, leaning down to lie across his lap. He took hold of her neck, pressing her down, making sure her arse became the highest point. As she spread her legs, he could see her cunt between her cheeks, and his cock jerked by the sight.

Wasting no time, he laid a solid smack across her cheeks, and she jumped. "Count, girl," he hissed, and she obediently squeaked: "One!" A lovely, red handprint spread over her arse, and he gave her another smack, his witch grunting: "Two!"

After five smacks, he paused, rubbing her slit, soaking his fingers into the slick wetness covering her. She moaned, arching her back up to get more friction, and he felt himself taking a deep breath, his balls tingling in anticipation.

Without warning, he laid on five more in rapid succession, and she counted out the numbers in small gasps. Pulling her up in his lap, he grabbed her head, snogging her deeply, letting his tongue explore deeply into her mouth, as his fingers trailed over her silk-covered nipples. _She felt so good, this was so amazing, he just loved the way she tasted, the way she felt underneath his hands._

Moving her legs to straddle him, she ground her wetness against his length. Her hands opened his fly, pulling out his cock, and by then, he couldn't restrain himself. He lifted her up, slamming her down onto him, groaning with pleasure as her tight, wet cunt squeezed around him. Her eyes flew wide open, gasping, and she stuttered: "Gods, Tom, you feel so big, it's so good…"

"Yes, little witch, clench down on me, take it, take it all," he was babbling, he knew that, but it didn't matter, because it was _her_ , and she was _perfect_ , she was _his_ , and she _wanted_ him, and…

His finger found her clit, rubbing her, that hard, little nub, so slick between her lips, and she panted in his ear, nibbling on his ear lobe, whispering: "Take me, fuck me, fill me up, ah, yes, oh, TOM!" His name was a shout, and he briefly thanked himself for putting up permanent Silencing Charms on his office, but then she was convulsing around him, squeezing him, her voice full of ragged, little cries, her hips humping his lap rapidly, and it was all too much: He groaned, spine tingling, cock pulsating, and his seed shot out, with long, heaving spurts inside her.

She clung to him, leaning her head into his shoulder, both of them basking in the afterglow, limbs relaxing, her pants slowly subsiding as she nuzzled into his neck: "Tom, I love you."

He almost stiffened, but even Lord Voldemort knew there was only one, possible reply to something like that. _Fuck. He would have to say it, though he detested the words. It was filthy. Filthy, and not worthy of him._ Still, there was no way around it. He gritted out: "I love you too, Hermione." _There. It wasn't so hard, was it?_ To his surprise, he repeated it, saying the words slowly: "I love you, Hermione."

Xxxx

'Gary from the office' was writhing on the ground. Served him right for trying to lure his witch away, taking her out of Voldemort's reach for three days. _Study trip, what bollocks!_ The man clearly had set his eyes on Hermione, though she hadn’t been seduced by the man’s efforts, and now, he would feel Voldemort's full wrath.

Voldemort cocked his head at him, asking nicely: "How do you feel about your remaining three rounds of the Cruciatus?"

The man groaned, face tear-stained, and his lips shivered pitifully. "P-p-p-please, p-p-p-please, d-d-d-on't, I - I - I do anything!"

A foul smell of defecation rose from him as he moved, and Voldemort rolled his eyes. "One more, I think, for insulting me by not holding your bowels properly. Three more, for making eyes at my witch."

"I - I - I didn't know! I didn't know you were … **_you_** , and I didn't know you had a thing for Granger! Please, you must believe me, please, don't kill me!" the man whimpered.

 _Seeing people grovel, it felt so good_. Voldemort smiled, though he knew his eyes were frosty. Preparing to cast, feeling the lovely build-up of his magic, the fiery darkness welling up, scorching his veins, thrumming against his temple, arousing him, made him feel invincible, his power rushing through him unfettered, it culminated in a whispered: "Crucio!"

The curse shot out of his wand, a red, glowing arch connecting him to the creature on the ground, making the man howl with pain. _Oh, yes, like a release, so strong, so powerful, the rush of the curse thundering through him_ … He gasped, eyes almost rolling back at the pleasure, and with a wide smile, he lowered his wand.

"Ready for more, 'Gary'?"

Xxxx

Potter and Weasley had gatecrashed his lunch with Hermione, disrupting the peace and quiet in his coffee haunt.

"I've never seen anyone drink as much coffee as you," Potter remarked, staring curiously at him as he downed his third espresso.

He grimaced, and for good measure, ordered another from the barista.

"It's because he was raised abroad," Weasley admonished, an overbearing, superior look in her eyes as she pushed her long, red hair behind the shoulder. "They don't drink as much tea as we do, you know."

"I know that!" Potter said, looking peeved. "I was just commenting on his habits, you know. There's no reason to act like I'm stupid!"

The two lovebirds glared at each other, and he exchanged a quick glance with Hermione, who shrugged, signalling that she had no idea either as to what their problem was. The silence stretched, Weasley nibbling on her biscuit, while Potter folded his arms across his chest, staring demonstratively at the ceiling. Hermione was fiddling with her cup, not drinking. He relished the feeling of unease, but she clearly felt it was uncomfortable.

"So," she said, with a small laugh, trying to ease the mood, "there's a wizard in the office, Gary MacCallum, who came to work today, looking like a fright. Turns out, he had gotten himself blindingly drunk yesterday, and then he couldn't remember anything at all, before waking up at the bottom of the stairs to his cellar. He's blue and black all over, but he's too ashamed to go see a mediwitch. Isn't this stupid? Though I dare say it's his own fault."

Voldemort smiled indulgently at her, shaking his head at the apparent stupidity of 'Gary'. _It was always nice to know that the layered Compulsion in his Obliviates worked. 'Gary' was not to visit a mediwitch for the next two weeks, until the residues of the Cruciatus had dissipated. And, of course, he was forbidden to ever seek out his witch again_. His fourth espresso arrived, and he stretched languidly in his chair. _Life was good_.

Xxxx

Stopping outside the kitchen as he came home, he heard the voices of Ginny Weasley and Hermione.

"I don't feel so good these days," his witch said plaintively. "It must be something I ate, because my digestion has gone all haywire. I'm, it's a bit embarrassing, Gin, I'm having gas problems, and my tummy feels like a balloon. It's been like this for a week, almost."

"Hmmm," the Weasley witch said slowly. "Do you feel nauseous?"

"Sometimes, but not much. Only if I'm hungry, like in the morning…" The silence in the kitchen was sudden.

He felt an ice-cold spike of dread in his stomach. _She couldn't be_ …

"Hermione," Weasley said gently, "have you and Tom been using protection?"

"Yes," his witch said, and he could hear the panic in her voice, matching his own. "I've cast the _Contraception_ spell myself every time."

"Calm down, relax," Weasley said in a soothing voice, "it won't be the end of the world, that is, if you even are pregnant."

"Gods, what would Tom say? And I swear, I have cast the spell, every time!" Hermione's voice was getting shriller, and he could almost hear her breathing through the wall.

"How far along could you be?" Weasley said in a forced, neutral tone.

"How far…? Well, My periods are a bit unpredictable, I'm not keeping track, exactly. It's been a while..." Her voice lowered, and she said in a whisper: "Merlin, it can't be Ron's, can it?"

He almost froze in the hallway. _She couldn't be. For one, he didn't want another child. Secondly, it would be a disaster if Ron Weasley had fathered a child on his witch._ He felt warm rage bubbling up, thawing his body, raising his temper to a boiling point. _Gods, if this was true, he'd swear to eradicate the Weasleys from the face of the earth_.

"Love, you need to check if you're pregnant, and how far along you are. Until then, no one can be sure."

"Yes, yes," Hermione muttered, obviously distressed.

"Do you need me to do it? I mean, cast the spell for checking?" Weasley's voice was kind, soft and reassuring, and he could imagine her stroking Hermione's cheek. He pressed his brow into the cool stone wall outside the kitchen, clenching and unclenching his fists as he waited … waited… waited.  
  
 _Tick – tock.  
Tick – tock.  
Tick - tock_.

  
The large grandfather clock in the hall had never sounded so loud, and he felt as if his heart slowed, taking on the pendulum's rhythm.

  
_Tick – tock._   
_Tick – tock._   
_Tick – tock._

"There you are! Five weeks pregnant," Weasley squealed happily.

"Five weeks? Five? Thank Merlin, it can't be Ron's," his witch sobbed.

He felt his anger shrink, placated, settling somewhere in the vicinity of his inner reservoir of rage, and pried his fists slowly open. _At least it was his own brat, not a Weasley._ His breathing was coming in hard, almost heaving pants.

From the kitchen, he could hear Hermione say: "It must have been one of the first times with Tom, then. Sweet Morgana, he will think I'm totally incompetent, not even managing a simple Contraception spell!"

Weasley chuckled, and said: "You're the most competent witch in Britain, love, and I'm sure he knows it. Hey, you should say it's his fault, for being so amazing in bed that you couldn't even think straight afterwards, or what?"

Hermione laughed a shaky, nervous laugh, and he almost punched the wall. _The god-damned bathtub. It was his own fault, though he could never tell her that. Fuck! This glitch was on himself_.

Slowly, he righted himself, and turned around, almost jumping by seeing Potter standing behind him, a curious expression on his face.

Scratching his messy hair, the wizard said: "Are you alright, Tom? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Giving off a heavy sigh, pointing at the kitchen, he replied: "I'm eavesdropping. Harry, apparently I'm going to be a father." _Again, thanks to your own idiocy_ , his mind unhelpfully supplied, but Potter's face broke out into a beaming smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh. You brought this on yourself, Tom!


	17. Obligations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'll have you know, I've done a lot of things that might be skirting the grey areas of magic," she said, looking irritated, eyes flashing dangerously. "This Golden Girl nonsense, I wish you wouldn't refer to that. It's silly, unrealistic and … flat out embarrassing."
> 
> "Sorry," he said, still laughing helplessly, clutching his stomach, before he managed to blurt out: "Hermione, this is hardly grey. This is dark."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, commenting and sending kudos - you're the best! <3

Much later, she was snuggled up to him in his bed, silk sheets soft around their still sweaty bodies. Her wild hair was spread out on his chest, and he had one arm slung around her back, stroking her skin lazily, enjoying how her heartbeat slowed as she came slowly down from the heights of her ecstacy.

_She had been red-faced, mortified, even, when he and Potter had entered the kitchen, telling her and Weasley he had overheard the whole thing. Her lip had quivered adorably, and she had looked so young, so lost and so afraid, not daring to meet his eyes. Through his own thrill of seeing her so afraid, his heart pumping furiously in his chest, he had firmly ensconced himself in the 'good boyfriend'-act, embracing her silently, not saying a word. Not that he had anything to say, either._

Potter and Weasley had discreetly left the kitchen, and only then, she lifted her head, saying tremulously: "Are you angry with me?"

His mind yelled: " _Yes! I am angry_!" But he knew, he was more angry with himself than with her. This was his own fault, and now, he had to fix the mess he had made. Like the good Slytherin's Heir he was, he would make the most of it. _At least, he could get some good publicity out of this insanity_.

Carefully, he said: "No, I'm not angry. I won't lie, this wasn't on top of my wish list right now, but we'll manage." As a ragged sigh broke from her, he added for good measure: "Together."

At that, she began crying, sniffling into his shirt, hiccuping: "I didn't plan for this. I'm too young, I was going to have a career first, I … I .. wanted to … do things..."

"You'll still have a career," he said, his tone much more patient than what he felt inside, "it's only somewhat postponed. You're bright and powerful, and you'll get your chance. Remember, you're going to live a very long time."

She gave a small laugh, saying: "True, though I'm impatient. I wanted the career first, and the baby later."

Closing his eyes, pressing his chin to her hair, he muttered: "Me too."

Now, after a good meal and an even better shag — his eyes became dreamy — _she had ridden him again, in reverse, and he had had the most marvellous view of her cunt devouring his cock_ — they were relaxing in bed. He felt sleepy, but thoughts were churning in his mind. _How could he exploit this? After this, some courses of action seemed to be a given, and he had to admit, it would be more than a little disturbing. Very far from his own inclinations. Still, he would have to go through with it, very soon_ …

Lazily, she said, interrupting his thoughts: " I can't help thinking. He — your father — he'd be so angry, his heir getting together with a Muggleborn, and siring a child on someone not Pure-Blooded."

"Do you think so?" he said, preoccupied, still wrestling with his plans.

She laughed into his chest: "Of course, he started a bloody war to eradicate people like me!"

He shrugged slightly against her, enjoying the slide of his skin against hers. "I don't think he cared about anyone's bloodline except his own. He wouldn't have minded, he was more interested in power." For once, he was entirely truthful. _He couldn't give a fuck about anyone else's families, they were so far beneath him anyway. Dirt, actually._

Remembering to stay in character, he added: "My mother was a Muggle-born, you know. It certainly didn't seem like he had any scruples about that."

"Hmmm," she mused, thoughtfully. "Do you think it was an act, the whole Pure-Blood thing? To cover up his own insecurities of being a Half-Blood?"

He snorted out loud, feeling more than a little insulted: "Hah! I would say it was more an easy way of getting followers, by playing to the political currents, it being what it was in the forties and the fifties. Like I said, he didn't give a flying fuck about anyone. Why would he bother with people's blood lines? Why care about something so insignificant?"

"No, I guess you might be right," she said slowly. Smiling as she nuzzled his chest, she said sleepily: "You always have these fresh thoughts about his motives. Most people just think he was a raving Pure-Blood fanatic. You, however, come up with other explanations, and this, about the blood status, somehow rings true to me. The whole Pure-Blood concept seems so far-fetched for a Half-Blood."

Making a split-second decision, almost like a whim, he said slowly to her: "I _am_ his blood. Maybe I think more like him than other people."

"As long as you don't murder me in my sleep," she chuckled softly.

With a fluttering feeling in his stomach, he pressed on, keeping to the truth: "I am the Heir of Slytherin. Our … child … will be an heir of Slytherin too. Have you thought about that?" _How would she react_?

She stilled. After a while, she gave a sigh: "I suppose not. I just hope our baby will be healthy, strong and smart."

 _Yes, and powerful_ , he thought. _With our powers combined, we have the opportunity to beget a quite unusual child_.

"It's unreal, in a way. I spent my childhood and youth fighting against old Pure-Blood prejudices," she continued. "And now, I carry a child that is the very epitome of what they treasured. Slytherin's heir."

"You do," he said calmly. "They would have been thrilled." _Thrilled to know their Lord was back, thrilled to know he was setting up a new rule, including an heir to continue the most powerful line of wizards in history, not matter the blood status of the mother._

Xxxx

Shacklebolt sighed, and Voldemort leaned back in the comfortable chair in the Minister's office, steepling his hands underneath his chin.

"Tom, I don't know what to do," the tall man sighed again. "How could all this happen at once?"

Voldemort shrugged, giving Shacklebolt a pitying look. _You will never know what hit you, will you?_

Malfoy had delivered, and the game was almost finished. He would have to laud Malfoy for the money spent and the well-placed curses.

"I don't know what to say," Voldemort said slowly. "It's very unfortunate, but I do believe it's a good thing all this came to light. However, I do share your concern about how everything seems to pile up all at once."

Shacklebolt sighed again, one hand knuckling his brow, then trailing slowly down, until he hid his eyes. A small shake of his shoulders was all that told Voldemort the Minister was crying, and he watched with fascination and delight as the most influential wizard in Britain broke down before his eyes. That was, currently the most influential, but not for long.

A ragged sigh came once again from the Minister, and his warm, brown eyes finally met Voldemort's black gaze: "I mean, one thing was McClenmore and his stupid, stupid attempts at nepotism, but how could three of Sam's office Heads do such serious budget overspending at the Creature's Department? And why would the Head of the Floo Authority spy on people in their own homes, using it as a party trick for his friends? And how come three wizards from the Apparition Test Centre suddenly demanded sexual favours from the sixth grade Hogwarts boys to let them pass the test? And what about the widespread bribery at the Department of Games and Sports? Not to mention poor old Flitterstone and his antics at Internationals affairs! And how the fuck was all this discovered all at once?"

"You know what you must do," Voldemort replied, his face a blank mask, keeping his amusement firmly pressed down. "Merlin knows, this isn't what _you_ deserve, Kingsley, but…"

"Yes." Shacklebolt glanced up to the ceiling, like the prancing, moulded plaster centaurs had the answer to his predicament. Voldemort could see his lips quivered for a moment, and then resolve settled, his mouth firming. "I'll fire all the three Department Heads involved tomorrow, and then I'll resign."

Silence settled, and Voldemort bowed his head, hiding the triumph dancing in his eyes.

"Tom," Shacklebolt's voice was weak, "Tom, Jeanette Selwyn will be acting Minister until the election. But when the time has come, I hope that you'll stand. She's not cut out for the job, she's too … traditional, if you catch my drift. You'll have my support in the election, whatever it means."

He met the ex-Minister's eyes, and nodded gravely, staying in character as good, humble Tom. "Thanks for believing in me. I don't know, it might be too early for me, but I'll consider it."

Xxxx

Dressing for work in the morning, standing in her bedroom by her dresser, he saw a quick flash of gold in the morning light. "What's this?" He picked up a golden coin from the dresser, realizing that what he had seen from the corner of his eyes was the flash of numbers and letters on the coin changing.

"Oh, did it change?" She sauntered over, taking a look at the coin. Then she squealed: "They have set a date! The wedding is on 12 May!"

He furrowed his brow, peering curiously at the coin. "Who? And what's with the Galleon?"

"Harry and Ginny, silly!" she said laughingly. "And the Galleon, well, that's my invention, from our days at Hogwarts. You can spell it to send simple messages. It's just a Protean Charm I tinkered with."

He reached out his hand to examine the coin, and she handed it over willingly. "Clever," he remarked, noting the very faint traces of magic on it, more feeling than seeing the thin threads of a layered Charm. "Very inconspicuous, and a fine piece of magic."

"Yes," she beamed, leaning back against the dresser. "Actually, I got the idea from Voldemort, you know."

"You did?" he said with some surprise.

"The Dark Mark, though obviously, I couldn't tattoo a mark on the skin of my fellow students. So, the coin told us where and when to meet when we had Dumbledore's Army back in my fifth year."

"It doesn't Summon people?" he asked, feeling vaguely horrified by the stray thought of being randomly Summoned by Potter.

"No." She bit her lip, looking annoyed. "I never found out how he made those Dark Marks into Summons. Either no one knew, or no one was willing to tell. At least, there are no written instructions."

He snorted. "It's easy. It's merely a layered Protean, like you did here, but the layers are a combined Summoning and a Point Me. The trick is to adjust the strength of the layers, as you wouldn't want anyone to Apparate on top of you."

"What?" her voice was a mix of confusion and irritation. "How do you know? I swear, I've researched this so thoroughly, and there _are_ no sources on this."

He almost bit his tongue. _A slip up. This was the danger of spending too much time with someone_. He had created the spell years before those minions of his had become Death Eaters, testing it out on a few, loyal men. Casting about for an explanation — it wouldn't do to put this on his so-called 'mother', at this point, the fictitious woman supposedly knew far too much advanced magic as it was, considering she was to have spent less than a year with Voldemort — he settled for the cheesiest one.

He winked at her, outrageously, saying: "I am an Unspeakable, you know."

Her eyes narrowed, and she almost hissed under her breath, her finger pointing bossily at him: "What's with the secrecy of your Department? People have a right to know how things really are!"

Blandly, he replied: "The Ministry doesn't think it to be a good idea for people to experiment with this sort of thing." In fact, he didn't think it would be a good idea either. His snake-faced self had obviously agreed, because if Hermione hadn't found any sources on his Dark Mark invention, there were probably none.

She was fuming, turning away from him, and he felt an odd need to placate her: "I agree with you, though. People should be allowed to study magic as they wish. I can't see why the curriculum at Hogwarts needs to be so … diluted. There's so much more, so much magical theory that people should be able to learn. Knowledge and research, that's the only way to expand our knowledge of magic."

Turning back towards him, she nodded quickly. "Exactly!" she said. "Though you're probably right, too. Not all kinds of magic should be taught."

He shrugged. "People should be able to decide for themselves. Knowledge is power, and most people are virtually analfabeths when it comes to how magic really works. After all, there's only power…" he stopped himself, biting his tongue to avoid saying his old adage, the words he **knew** were associated with his snake-faced self, but it was too late. Much too late, because his clever witch had already caught on.

Her eyes darkened, and she folded her arm across her chest. "Say it," she whispered, her eyes demanding it with a curious intensity. "Say it."

Slowly, like she coerced the words out of him, he completed the sentence: "...and those too weak to seek it."

She took a deep breath, eyes never leaving his face, like she could see into his mind, and she asked with a calm he was quite sure she didn't feel: "Do you really mean that?"

He turned away from her for a moment, to get away from those eyes commanding him to tell the truth. _The truth he couldn't tell, the one thing she could never know_. Abruptly, he swirled around, facing her again, folding his own arm across his chest, and said grimly: "Yes."

Before her reaction was more than the beginnings of a frown, he pressed on: "I've never seen anything that says otherwise. It doesn't have to be in the extreme, like killings or a war, but everyday life, the whole fucking Ministry proves it. There are those who fight their way to the top no matter what they have to do, and there's the rest who are not willing to do what it takes to win. You know this, you see it every day, Hermione."

She pursed her lips, looking searchingly at him. "And who are you?"

The question gave him chills down his spine. _She mustn't know!_ Standing there, she looked so achingly beautiful. Golden-brown, riotous curls, eyes the colour of the darkest chocolate, her body lithe and yet curvaceous. _And she was carrying his heir_. Voldemort swallowed. _There was no reason to lie, she would find out what kind of wizard he was, eventually_. Straightening himself, he looked her dead into the eyes, drowning in the darkness he could see there: "I'm the one who wins. Always. And so are you, Hermione."

Xxxx

Delphini was running around on the verdant, green lawn with some of the Weasley brats, laughing uproariously as they chased Garden gnomes around in the too-high grass. Molly Weasley was chanting a _Reparo_ at the swings, repairing the ropes his daughter had suddenly and mysteriously caused to fray, resulting in little Lucy falling down, yelling at the top of her lungs. 

He was leaning against the rickety house, well hidden in the shadows, while Arthur Weasley lounged beside him, a glass of lemonade in his hands. The man was dabbing his brow with a handkerchief, his red hair full of graying streaks. The April sun was hot, and the younger witches and wizards were playing quidditch. All except for his own witch, currently resting on the sofa, trying to keep her dinner down from her early pregnancy nausea, while frantically trying to persuade the Weasleys that she was merely very tired.

_Yesterday, she had Apparated quickly out of her own home after their discussion, but at lunch time, she had shown up in his office again._

_"You're right," she had said, voice low and broken, closing the office door behind her. "I am like that too. I win, every time. But, I want you to know, I think there's more to life. There's love, caring and there's right or wrong, everything isn't just power and fights. I can do good, too, even though I win."_

_He had had time to think - it was vital to keep his witch happy - so he quickly nodded. "I know, love," he said soothingly, "I know."_

_"Because I do care for you," she said, "and I don't want you to think it's all about power."_

_"No," he said, surprising himself by feeling truthful. "I know that. I know, my sweet." And she did, she cared for him, he knew that, he could even sense it in his bones. And she, well, she belonged to him. She was an important plot piece for him, but she was more, too. Hermione Granger counted as one of his possessions, and he always took care of his things, very good care, protecting what was his. Scooping her up into his arms, he whispered into her hair: "There's more. There's you."_

Almost groaning in embarrassment at the memory of his own, inexplicable weakness, he scowled into his own glass of lemonade. It had been the right thing to say, because she certainly had been pleased, but he felt like a fool, an utter idiot. _He had displayed a weakness. He had as good as told her she was important to him, for real. And Lord Voldemort just didn't do that_. Resting his head against the panel of the house, he could feel the flaking paint scratch at the skin of his neck.

"She's sweet," Arthur Weasley remarked, eyes following Delphini. "And so strong. When she reaches the age for Hogwarts, she'll be more powerful than many of the older students."

"Hmm," he grunted. _He expected nothing less, though, she was his daughter. She would have to be strong_.

Weasley glanced at him, and smiled wryly: "Though I dare say no one will try to fight her, knowing who sired her."

That drew a small grin from him too. "I guess that will be a deterrent for most, yes."

It seemed to open up for more questions from the Weasley patriarch. "You and Hermione, I just wanted you to know, there are no hard feelings from our side. It has been obvious for a while that she and Ron would never work out. We love her like our own daughter, and we're happy she's found happiness with you. As for Ron, well..."

Arthur Weasley sighed, resting his glass against his portly stomach, no doubt a result from Molly Weasley's surprisingly good cooking combined with middle-aged complacency. "I don't know what's wrong with him, but I am very worried, we all are. Saying such things to Harry, and to Hermione… Disappearing like that, it's not like him."

His big, baby-blue eyes had a hopelessness to them, worry shining through as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Voldemort gritted his teeth, but to play out his 'nice' character, he reached out a hand and patted Weasley's beefy back. _It had worked wonders with Potter, maybe it would work with Weasley too?_

It did, as the man gave him a grateful grin, and sipped at his lemonade again. After a while, he said: "You know, you've had the fastest rise to power in the Ministry I've ever seen. And I've been there for more than thirty years, now."

"Yes", he said, noncommittally, "but then again, I was older when entering the Ministry too. It's not like I was fresh out of school, like most people are."

"There's that," Weasley said. Giving him a considering look, he added: "You know, people are speaking well of you, saying you are a good boss, an inspiring leader, with an immense knowledge of magic and such."

He couldn't help it, his damned pride rearing its ugly head, and he _preened_. He had worked so hard to become everyone's favourite, suppressing many of his instincts. _It was about time it paid off_. "Nice to know," he almost purred, trying to keep the obvious satisfaction out of his voice, while shouting at himself internally for letting himself be so easily flattered.

Weasley said slowly: "And now, with the situation that arose with all the scandals, there'll be an election. Have you considered standing?"

Xxxx

"When should we test our sparkly revenge?" she said, dangling a phial precariously from her fingers. The contents were swirling sparks, in the colours of the rainbow. He shuddered, imagining the horror of living out one's life with a sparkly Unicorn disease.

"Careful with that," he admonished, pointing at the phial.

She grinned, and said confidently: "Don't worry. It's Shielded, and I put an Unbreakable Charm on the glass, as well as Sealed the stopper. If I lose it, the effect will be like a diamond falling on a downy pillow. We're safe."

He breathed out in relief, but still eyed the phial warily.

"Tonight, maybe?" he asked, not wanting to be in the same room as the sparkling danger more than necessary.

"Alright," she said, looking pleased, smiling wickedly. "How do we do it? Sneak in, leave it in their tea, beer or whatever they are drinking?"

Nodding to the phial, sending flashy little sparks in all directions, much like a Muggle disco light, just like she had pointed out earlier, he said: "They will notice the … sparkliness. I can see two options: Either we force them physically to drink it, or we simply make them comply."

Her grin fell, and she sighed. "I guess you are right, but I feel … it's wrong, both options. I sort of hoped you would have an easy fix to the problem."

Keeping his face blank - _as if he cared either way they were forced_ \- he said: "I believe making them is the easiest way. It's the least harmful we can do." She might have traces of darkness, but he didn't think she had it in her to stand by as he tortured someone. _No, that would definitively not work, so, it would have to be the Imperius Curse._

"Ok, I know you're right. I haven't tried this in a long time," she said nervously, "but I think I'll manage. I might have to check up some references before we go, maybe practising my wand movements…"

He stared at her incredulously. "Are you… are you going to Imperius them?" he asked, fighting to keep his laughter down. _Here she was, planning to use the Imperius herself, when he —_ **_he_ ** _— of all people, was accompanying her._

"Yes, well, did you have another curse in mind? Like I said, I have tried it before, so you won't have to if you're not familiar with ..." she said, preoccupied, as she ran her hands over her book shelf, clearly delving into her literature search already.

At that, he laughed out loud, plopping down in a chair, bursts of laughter almost choking him.

She turned at him, frowning, those luscious lips forming a pout. Pointing her finger at him, she said: "This is not funny, Tom. What are you laughing at, you big buffoon? The curse, or me performing it?"

"Both," he gasped, "both. Who would have known the law-abiding, everyone's favourite good Golden Girl would use the Imperius on behalf of Lord Voldemort … Lord Voldemort's son?!" He almost slipped up, again, but saved himself quickly, wiping his eyes, mirth making his eyes watery, and her scowl made him double up again as a fresh fit of amusement hit him.

"I'll have you know, I've done a lot of things that might be skirting the grey areas of magic," she said, looking irritated, eyes flashing dangerously. "This Golden Girl nonsense, I wish you wouldn't refer to that. It's silly, unrealistic and … flat out embarrassing."

"Sorry," he said, still laughing helplessly, clutching his stomach, before he managed to blurt out: "Hermione, this is hardly grey. This is dark."

Xxxx

"How's the planning going?" he said to Potter as they entered the Atrium, heading for the Floos on their way home in the afternoon.

"What?" Potter said, clearly bewildered, before he almost blushed a little. Clearing his throat, he shot Voldemort a quick glance. "Err, about that… I need to ask you something. Let's grab a beer before we go home, alright?"

The two wizards stood in line for the Floos, and the queue moved rapidly forward as the fires flared green.

"Sure," Voldemort said with some surprise. "At the Leaky Cauldron?"

"Yes. After you, Tom," Potter said, motioning for Voldemort to go first.

He took a pinch of Floo powder, before saying "The Leaky Cauldron." The world spun, and he emerged into the large fireplace of the pub. Moving quickly out of the way, he brushed ashes from his black silk robes. It was a rainy day, and the large room was damp with the smell of clothes steaming from Drying Charms.

Potter stumbled out after him, and the whole pub fell silent for a moment, staring at the two wizards, before the whispering started. Voldemort sighed, and his companion grumbled: "I hate it when they do that."

"The staring?" he asked, and Potter nodded with a grimace.

"It's like we're zoo animals. Someone's always watching. It's even worse when they see both of us, together."

Voldemort shrugged, and replied callously: "The men are staring because they want to be us. The women are staring because they want us. It's not that hard." _After all, he didn't mind the admiring looks._

Potter gave a wry smile, before he huffed. "As if my past — or yours — were anything to wish for." He stomped off to order two pints at the counter, before they sat down at a corner table, sipping their beers, pretending not to notice the continued staring from the other patrons.

"So, what did you want to ask me?" Voldemort said.

Potter took a deep breath. "I know this is a bit much to ask, and I've only known you a couple of months. This thing with Ron, you see, I always imagined him as my best man, and..."

Voldemort goggled at Potter. _Was he really suggesting what he thought? Merlin's hairy arse, Potter **was** , wasn't he? He felt like laughing_.

Slowly, Potter completed his sentence: "...and now, after what happened to Ron, I would like to ask you to be my best man. You've proven yourself as a real friend to me."

"Thanks," he said, incredulity in his voice. "I'm flattered, truly I am. So, you are actually asking me to be your best man?" _Damn, he was good! Potter had really bought his act, hook, line and sinker._

"Yes," Potter said nervously, draining his beer.

"Of course. Absolutely. I'd be happy to." Voldemort said with a big smile he didn't have to fake. _Sometimes, things just played into his hands. This was the perfect addition to the story he would present in the election campaign. Him, being Harry Potter's best friend and best man. Though, it meant he had to keep his other plans on a hold a little further._

"There'll be changes to your personal life too," Potter said with an amused smile. "How do you feel about becoming a father?"

"I don't know," he said, dragging the word out. _In truth, he didn't know. He was soon to be a father to no less than two small children, whereas he had never given any serious thought to procreating before. Well, he supposed, he would have had to continue the blood line at some point, but…_ "I never had a father myself, so, it's not like I know how it's done. I mean, how do you go about being a father?"

Potter winced. "I guess so. It's the same for me too, actually." They both glanced away from each other quickly. Potter's next words hung unspoken in the air: _As your father killed mine_.

Voldemort's thoughts wandered to Delphini. _His small daughter, magically gifted and powerful, just like any child of his line should be_. He wondered if his snake-faced self had been pleased, or if he saw the child as a necessary evil.

After a short while, Voldemort asked: "As I understand it, you could sense some of his emotions. Did you feel anything concerning Delphini?"

Potter frowned, thinking. "It's hard to say. I could feel when he was angry, or … elated, but he hid most of his feelings from me after a while. No, I couldn't tell. Though," he said, brightening, "the wands he used, you know. They checked the wands he had used recently with the Reverse Spell, the _Prior Incantato_. Predictably, there were a lot of gruesome things, as well as spells no one has understood yet. But with his own wand, the one he had from his school days, there was also a series of innocent spells. Spells to soothe a baby, to set a cradle rocking, or making those toys you hang over the bed swing and tinkle and such. No one understood why he had used such spells at the time, but now it’s obvious, he must have used them for Delphini. There weren't many, mind you, but apparently he did care for her, somewhat. "

Voldemort's eyebrows lifted. Interesting. _He had … his snake-faced self had … taken care of Delphini. Sort of, at least. What was more interesting, was the fact that his original wand seemed to be in existence still_.

"His wand?" he asked. "Where is it now?"

Potter shrugged. "Somewhere in the archives of Magical Law, I expect. Or maybe even in your Department? Who knows?"

Nodding, Voldemort resolved to retrieve it. He was very pleased with the wand he held now, but there was something special about the one he had had from boyhood. _Besides, it was only sensible to keep a spare wand_. But there was one question burning on the tip of his tongue:

"How did that come about? How did he get his wand back after he tried to kill you when you were a baby?"

Potter's eyes widened. "What the fuck… I've never thought about that. How did he indeed get it back? He certainly couldn't have taken it with him when he was rendered incorporeal!"

Suddenly, his face dipped into a scowl, and he said: "Snape! Damn it, I bet he took it, and returned it when Voldemort was resurrected. He was there, you know, just after my Mum and Dad were killed."

Voldemort nodded slowly. "Seems to be a viable explanation. But why? I thought he was on your side."

Potter pondered that for a moment, before he scowled even deeper, spitting out: "Dumbledore! That manipulative, meddling man! I bet he fucking knew about the _Priori Incantatem_ and the twin cores, and he ordered Snape to… And he never told me anything!"

"Shhh!" Voldemort hissed, noting ears perking up among the patrons, some giving him long glances, one even rolling his eyes contemptuously, like he thought _'What did I say?_ '

Potter started to say: "No, I'll go and tell his portrait exactly where he can shove his…"

"Please, keep your voice down!" Voldemort urged, but he only got a confused look in return. Sighing, he explained: "You, as the Chosen One, could scream out in rage at Dumbledore from the Atrium, if you so wished. I, on the other hand, like now, people are going to think I'm trying to turn you against Dumbledore's memory."

"Bah," Potter said, "people love you. No one believes..."

"Oh, some do," Voldemort said with irritation. "There are a surprisingly large number of people who think I'm evil incarnate, and they are willing to believe anything."

"Hmm," Potter grunted, still fuming. He drained his beer, and ordered two more. Voldemort sighed. _It was to be one of_ **_those_ ** _nights_. Well, he couldn’t stay long, he had an appointment with his witch. 

Potter took a deep swig of his new pint, and he made an effort to visibly calm himself. He continued in a normal tone: "How do you know people say such things about you? I haven't heard anyone say so."

Voldemort snorted. "Legilimency," he replied curtly. "Trust me, there are enough people thinking that I'm in cahoots with him."

"You've never used Legilimency on me," Potter remarked.

He almost blanched. "No, no," he said hurriedly, "and I don't want to either."

"You should try," Potter said, "because I think I've gotten better during Auror training. I was rubbish, you know, but now I think I'm pretty decent. I've never tried to withstand a powerful Legilimens after I trained. Why don't you have a go?" He waved his hands towards his head, gesturing as an invitation to cast the spell, but Voldemort shuddered.

"No, I can't. I don't want to." _Potter would definitely recognize his mind. He just couldn't take the chance. It would be a disaster!_

Potter almost pouted, and he said: "You used it on Hermione. She told me."

Rolling his eyes, he said: "It was just because I didn't believe her when she said she didn't know a whit about Occlumency. She's so accomplished in everything else, I just thought it couldn't be true."

Potter grinned: "She is usually the best, isn't she? Tell me, was she rubbish at Occlumency? Like really rubbish?"

Voldemort smiled wryly back. "Don't tell her, but she was one of the worst I've ever seen. She didn't even notice I invaded her mind!"

Potter cackled. "Finally, there's something I can do better than Hermione! Would you know…" He chugged down the rest of his pint, ordering another.

Voldemort discreetly cast a Sobering spell on himself, and nodded as the bartender floated another two pints down on their table.

"Speaking of Hermione," Potter said slyly. "Are you planning to propose to her, with the baby and all?"

Voldemort started, splashing beer over his shirt. _Fuck! Did Potter think he would…?_

Potter grinned once more. "Your face is telltale enough. Sorry for prying, but I'll be happy to see you do the right thing by her. She deserves that."

Strangely enough, he found himself nodding. "She does," he said. And he meant it. She deserved the best. Maybe she even deserved him.

Xxxx

" _Imperio_!" Her voice was even, her wand movement steady, but one of her feet was tapping quickly on the wooden floor, clearly showing her nervousness. He watched her intently, relishing the concentration on her pretty face, the way her brows furrowed, as she forced her will on the burly wizard sitting slack-jawed at the dirty kitchen table. _Oh, she looked delicious, doing dark magic, and tendrils of hot fire curled in his groin, arousing him_. His witch was dressed in a dark blue, sleeveless dress, fit for a warm, spring night, and his eyes followed her curves hungrily. _Would she be affected by the casting? Would the Imperius induce a response from her_?

The man stared vacantly in front of him, not resisting as Hermione made him open his mouth to drink from the phial with the dreadful, sparkly Unicorn snot. Voldemort shuddered with disgust, but he had to chuckle as the man lit up like a Christmas tree, shooting glowing lights in an arch around him, brightening the kitchen with silly, rainbow-coloured flashes. _He couldn't have imagined a better punishment for someone who fancied themselves as dark and dangerous_.

Hermione smiled at him, sharing a moment of vindictive satisfaction. He stepped up to her, using his height to loom over her, trailing his fingers down the exposed skin of her arm, making her shiver. _Revenge. They had done it. She had done it for him_. He looked with amusement at the man, as the fellow's eyes vacuously followed the sparkles emitting from his body.

"One down," she said softly.

Voldemort nodded, and pulled out his wand. " _Obliviate_ ," he said calmly. The man blinked, as they quickly went outside. After a few seconds, they heard angry yells and shouts, before they laughingly Apparated to the next address.

" _Imperio_."

At the second house, he was rubbing up against her arse as she Cursed the man, drowning in the swell of her magic as she released the spell, little sparks shooting through his cock. Her body was no longer tense, and she arched back into his body, as his hands came up, cupping her breasts. Well on the outside, she said faintly: "I don't know, it seems like the spell, the darkness, makes me feel… and in public too, even though he's under the curse, it's like I don't care he's watching, because..." she stopped, blushing fiercely.

"Mmm," he purred, saying slowly: "A part of the seductive powers of dark magic, don't you think? It can, at times, make your passion mount, by tapping into darkness and power."

"But our intent… Our intent is good, at least, not entirely bad, is it? These people hurt you, and what we do here is merely a joke compared to an attack. It isn't dark. Not really?" Her eyes, though, were dark and liquid, and she slowly licked her lips as she spoke, unconsciously rubbing her thighs together.

 _He didn't quite agree with that, seeing as this would give their victims a permanent infliction, but who was he to dissuade her?_ "It's just the way this kind of magic can make you feel, Hermione," he said patiently. "Don't worry about it, it's nothing wrong with the way you feel. This is just something that might happen if you play with the Imperius."

The Imperius Curse was infamous for the possible, but unpredictable effects on the caster, the heady thrill of controlling another making it a very addictive spell. It didn't affect him, though. _Voldemort supposed he had become too jaded_. But seeing her affected by the power of the spell was quite another matter. He swallowed, his mouth feeling dry as he took in her slightly hooded eyes.

" _Imperio._ "

In the third victim's house, his hands went under her shirt, fondling the hard peaks of her nipples, then he snaked his hand up her skirt, caressing her bottom with teasing, light strokes, and she murmured encouragement to him as she ground against his erection, watching the last of their victims down the sparkling liquid.

After they were done, he yanked her quickly into a Side-Along. Landing directly into his bedroom, he pounced on her, gripping her throat with one hand, bending her head back, attacking her collarbone and neck with his lips. She mewled, making his cock throb painfully.

Taking control over her body by sheer strength, his hand parted her thighs, making her squirm. He pushed her knickers aside, going directly for her clit.

"Gods, Tom," she panted, "you, I … Oh!"

He grinned wickedly down at her, whispering: "You're so close, little witch, aren't you? So turned on by the magic you used?"

"Yes," she gasped, her eyes rolling back. He pushed her down on his bed, spreading her legs, and went for her soaked pussy with his tongue. She arched up, her body stiffening, and her voice rose in a growing crescendo of moans, pants, gasps and little cries. Pushing two fingers inside her made her fall from the edge, and she contracted around his fingers, crying out his name: "Tom, oh Tom, please, more!"

He growled into her cunt as she came down, and moved up her body like a viper, Divesting himself of his trousers, slamming his achingly hard cock inside her. Grunting as her blissfully wet, tight heat enveloped him, he couldn't restrain himself, the pleasure being too much, and he pounded into her with all his strength, grabbing her thighs, spreading her wider by pushing her legs against her chest. Almost snarling as he took her, possessing her body with the force of his own, he arched his head back, feeling ecstasy flood him as he slid out, slamming back in, grabbing her hands, pinning her down underneath him on the silky bed sheets.

She gasped in time with his thrusts, writhing around him, eyes dark and blazing with liquid heat, and the tingle went down his spine, tightening into a hot coil in his balls, and he was there, too quickly, almost too much, shuddering, gasping and trembling as he buried himself deep inside her, erratically thrusting as bliss shot up his cock, fading all sight into blindingly white, intense rapture, groaning "Hermione, you're mine, you belong to me, I claim you as my own!"

In time with his release, the spell shot out of him, involuntary, not with any conscious thought behind the action, and it settled into her skin. Her eyes widened, and she gave a small cry of pain, her hand shooting down to clutch her left hip.

They both blinked, as they watched the small, golden snake creep out of the glittering green skull, twisting and flickering its tongue.

"You Marked me," she whispered incredulously.

"I did," he said, thoughts whirling. _Doing this - this, of all things - with a blast of involuntary magic, it was nearly impossible to comprehend. How had he, Lord Voldemort, lost all control like this?_ "I hadn't planned to," he said, haltingly, "it just happened."

She fingered the small snake, making it writhe under her fingers, looking at it with a mix of wonder and suspicion.

"Why?" she asked, logic and curiosity winning out on whatever she felt by this.

He couldn't read her, didn't know if she was angry or hurt, or even if she suspected him of anything sinister. So, he decided to just tell her the truth: "Because you're mine."

Xxxx

He came very close to breaking all the windows in the Grounded Bean in a blast of rage, but managed to force it down, barely, though the cup rattled on his saucer in a threatening fashion for a couple of long minutes. The Prophet told a story about him being a heavy user of Dark Magic, the supposed source being a Seer or some such nonsense.

The newsrag was startlingly accurate, telling that he had all the traces of someone using Unforgivables and other Dark spells, even suggesting that he had used other torture curses and routinely broke into people's minds. Of course, an anonymous Ministry speculated on him using the Imperius on Shacklebolt to get into position so quickly, adding that this behaviour was only to be expected by Lord Voldemort's spawn.

 _Fuck them, fuck those sharks_! He downed his espresso with a snarl, and slowly, the newspaper started to smoulder, before burning to a cinder with a flash, ashes drifting down to the floor as people stopped talking and curious glances were sent his way.

His grin was feral, snarling, as he scribbled down a note to Selwyn: _Do it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Kingsley! 
> 
> There's no evidence in canon of Hermione ever using an Unforgivable. Though, Hermione being Hermione, I can easily see her practising wand movements and incantations for the Unforgivables, maybe going so far as casting an Imperius on a fly (and regretting it deeply afterwards). So for the purpose of this story, let's just say she's been practising.
> 
> I also took some liberties with the seductive powers of dark magic and the Imperius. It would be really impractical if one became all hot and bothered every time one cast "Imperio", so I'm limiting this to more random effects.


	18. Power Scuffles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He, Lord Voldemort, was about to mount an attack on Azkaban with an unsuspecting Order. In all probability, this was as good as manipulation got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot happened in the last chapter - this one is more action-packed. Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

"Voldemort!" The shout came from behind him, and he almost turned, his step faltering. The sound of running feet came closer, and someone grabbed his sleeve, yanking him into a full stop.

"What?" he turned around, staring down into the face of a very young, very short reporter from the wireless. The man had mousey brown hair and brown eyes, camera at the ready, and the expression in his eyes were bordering somewhere between serious and mischievous. Around them, people passing by were staring, though everyone seemed to be in a hurry to escape the light drizzle coming down from the grey skies. _Gods, he wanted to curse that little shit, whoever he was, but there was a camera - he'd have to show restraint._

"Got your attention with that one, didn't I?" the reporter said triumphantly, bouncing on the balls of his toes, sticking a microphone underneath Voldemort's nose.

"My attention with what?" he snapped, though he very well knew what the man - _the boy, rather_ \- was referring to. With difficulty, he forced his face into a more relaxed expression. _Fuck, his enemies at the Ministry, the other Department Heads, were getting bolder._

" _Voldemort_ ," the man grinned. "Some say you are the man incarnate, because it's nigh impossible to look this much like another person, including being a copy of his level of magical strength. Tell us, are you?"

Voldemort rolled his eyes, looking exasperatedly at the young man, before giving him his best grin. "Look, if I were him, would you still be standing here?"

"Um, well, yes?" the man said with a small frown, before he brightened up: "No! He would have killed me, wouldn't he?"

"Something like that. Please don't refer to me by that name," Voldemort said, cocking his eyebrow as he read the name tag on the man's press card: ' _Dennis Creevey, Wizarding Wireless Reporter_.'

"But it is your name too. Aren't your full name Tom Marvolo Voldemort Riddle, just like his?"

"Yes," he sighed, "though I ask people to refer to me as Tom Riddle."

"Ok, Mr. Riddle. Are you a practitioner of dark magic, then?" the reporter looked hopeful.

Voldemort couldn't do anything but shake his head: "Seriously?" _Really, did the man live under a rock? Did he really expect him to confirm something like that? Or, for that matter, deny it? Each and every witch and wizard used dark magic. The demarcation line between light and dark magic was non-existent in his opinion_.

"I've heard you shut down the Love and Prophecy Offices in your department," the reporter said, suddenly looking all business, all traces of stupidity and ignorance gone.

Voldemort almost did a double take at the sudden change, but straightened imperceptibly, towering over the young man. "I did," he said, putting on his serious face.

"Care to tell us why? Rumours say you shut down Love because you have no ability to love, just like _him_ , and others say you've shut down Prophecy because you're afraid of what any prophecies might say about you."

"To be frank, the reason is much more mundane, I'm afraid. I discovered, unfortunately, that both offices were plagued by certain kinds of misuse. I won't go into details, but we had severe organizational problems within these two offices. It wasn't a question, I had to act."

"Why has this been hidden from the public?"

"Hidden? We've been open about this the entire time, telling the public about the shut-down, though the details were not publicised at the time."

"Since then, Mr. Riddle, there have been several scandals, and the public has gotten free access to the details. Will you reconsider, giving up all the sordid details from your Department for public scrutiny? Many wonder about all the going-ons at the Ministry these days, and it isn't easy to see the bigger picture. The public needs to know what's been going on."

"I make no promises, but I will consider this anew, because this is a valid question," he replied, watching the small reporter intently, trying to pull him in with his gaze. "Like many others, I'm appalled at the recent discoveries, and I think we need to do a thorough examination of how we run our government. Though, this must be done with a respectful approach, considering how many hard-working, good people there are in the Ministry," he stated, making sure his expression was serious and earnest. "We all want a well-functioning Ministry, and I will do my best to contribute."

Creevey nodded, looking slightly dazed, before he asked: "You are so new to the Ministry, meaning that no one will associate you with the troubles. Barring people's suspicion of your connection to Lord Voldemort, will you stand in the election?"

Voldemort flashed his best smile again at the camera, and said: "I have been asked to do so, but as of yet I haven’t decided."

_Of course he had,_ he thought as the reporter shook his hand after the interview. _The launch of his campaign demanded something bigger than a random street interview with someone who tried to frame him as "Lord Voldemort." If only they knew how close they had hit the mark._

Xxxx

Sitting at his desk, pretending to skim through research papers, he thought about the Marking of his witch. _It was different from the Markings of his followers_ . For once, the tattoo had turned out golden and green, not black. There had been only a little pain for her, unlike for them, and as they explored the properties of the tattoo, it was clear that while he could Summon her, she also had the opportunity to resist. Moreover, she could use it to get his attention. Besides, the Mark didn't burn, it just tickled her. _Mercilessly._

Voldemort snorted. _Tickled, like it was a caress of a lover, not a work of magic designed to control._ Hermione had been most of all bothered by the shape. While she accepted the fact that he knew of the original Dark Mark spell, and that the creation was an accident in the throes of passion, she was scared, disappointed and suspicious by the fact that he had marked her with Lord Voldemort's sigil: the snake and the skull.

_Voldemort had tried to explain that this was the shape the spell was designed to create, but she had refused, stubbornly, to understand, saying: "I can't see why you, of all people, would Mark me like that. I'm branded like a Death Eater, Tom, even though the colours are different!"_

_He had sighed: "Maybe it's like a family crest, then, because I swear, Hermione, I had absolutely no intention of doing this."_

_Scowling at him, she had grunted: "Still, the fact that your unintentional magic created_ **_his_ ** _sign, is disturbing."_

Voldemort pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. She was not convinced, and much more suspicious than she had been before. Still, she hadn't left. She had stayed the night in his bed, tucked into his arms. _That, at least, was a good sign. But really, he had to curb his temper and his actions. He was slipping up far too much, these days. With Hermione's brainpower, she wouldn't be fooled for long if he kept making so many mistakes. Election mode, the perfect gentleman wizard, that was the thing. He would have to deliver, he had to convince her._

Xxxx

The message had just arrived, and it was finally time for action. He was sprinting towards the Auror Office, gathering up Hermione from her cramped office as he ran.

"What is it?" she huffed and puffed behind him, having trouble keeping up with him on her short legs.

"We need to talk to Harry, _now_ ," he snapped at her, rounding the corner to get to the Auror offices.

He entered Potter's office, his breath barely picking up, but his witch was panting, bending over and resting her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

Flicking the door shut with a wandless wave, he confronted the surprised face of Potter.

"Tom, Hermione," Potter said nervously, fiddling with his glasses, "what's the matter?"

"She's arrested Kingsley. Selwyn, I mean," he said, making sure to look very serious and stern. "He's already in Azkaban, guarded by Dementors. Did you hear me? **Dementors** ! Selwyn reinstated them to Azkaban as of _yesterday_! She hauled him off last night, and I don't think Law Enforcement are aware of it yet. Or, _are you_?" He levelled an accusing glare at Potter, making the man automatically sitting up straighter in his chair.

"What?" both Potter and Hermione spluttered, Potter's face turning an ugly, splotched red with anger.

"Yes," Voldemort said grimly. "Kingsley doesn't deserve that. We need to help him. We need to release him, quickly!"

"Have you talked to Selwyn?" Hermione said, ever practical, eyes filled with both worry and rage, her hair almost crackling with electricity. _Oh, she was magnificent, logical even when angry and upset._

Voldemort almost smiled, but instead, he said: "I most certainly will, though considering… I'm not sure of the effect. Harry, will you alert your … friends, the Order? Hermione, will you check the legality of the grounds of arrest? I don't think it'll hold up in court, but first and foremost, we need to get him out. **_Now_**. Those Dementors are bound to be _hungry_ after a few years without any feeding. "

They nodded, and Potter rushed out of his office. Hermione stayed behind for a moment, her eyes soft as she said: "Take care, love. Selwyn has been rumoured to support _him_. If she does this, then there's no telling what she'll do. Promise me..."

He smiled at her, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, before crushing her into his chest. "You too, darling, you too."

Then they were off, stalking the corridors on their way to their tasks. He walked briskly up to the Minister's office, thinking about his commands for Selwyn.

_Earlier, Selwyn had been very reluctant to obey. She had insisted: "This isn't a good idea, my Lord. There'll be unrest, and I'll be forced to release him. You are asking me to go beyond the Ministerial rights, by not involving the Magical Law Enforcement."_

_He had nodded, and by that, she had bit her lip hard, a drop of blood oozing out from her wrinkled and dry lips. "Please, my Lord. Are you … going to sacrifice me? Like a pawn, with this plan?"_

_He had given her a cold smile: "No. The difference between me and the version of me you were familiar with, is the fact that I reward my faithful servants, instead of punishing them. You will need to play your part and yes, you will be humbled, but I will restore you and reward you. You have my word as the Heir of Slytherin."_

_By that, she had been appeased, and now, she had delivered Shacklebolt to Azkaban at his command, the Dementors at the ready. The human guards were, as always, dispensable._

And now, he just needed to check up with her to ensure that everything was according to plan.

Xxxx

A little while later, Hermione came running to his office, yelling furiously: "She can't! She just can't, not without the signature of the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. This means, it's illegal, Tom!"

He let his eyes widen in feigned surprise, and said, his voice gratingly low as he paced his office: "Let me talk to Robards. We need to check if he was informed." _This was almost too easy_ , and on the inside, he felt almost like cackling. Robards was Shacklebolt's best friend and staunchest supporter, and chances were, he'd explode through the roof because of this.

On his way into the floor of Magical Law Enforcement, for the second time that day, they ran into Potter again. As he strode down the corridor to the Head's office, he heard Hermione telling Potter of her findings in a whisper, while he updated her on the Order.

As they barged into the Head of Magical Law Enforcement's office, the man scrambled up from his seat, spilling tea all over his shirt, creating an ugly, yellow stain. The lean, middle-aged man looked thoroughly shocked, and Voldemort almost sniggered: _It was clear Robards wasn't used to having people entering without an appointment_.

"What's this? Oh, hello Tom, Harry, and Miss Granger?" The middle-aged wizard said, pushing his hand through his thinning, blonde hair, while discreetly casting a spell to clean himself.

"I presume you’ve heard?" Voldemort snapped, like he was upset.

"Heard what?" Robards said, frowning.

"She, _acting_ Minister Selwyn, I mean, has imprisoned Kingsley as of yesterday," Voldemort stated, folding his arms across his chest, scowling like he thought Robards was in on it. "And we want to know, why did you allow this?"

"No!" the gasp was immediate, and Robards banged his fist on the oaken desk, making pieces of parchment flutter to the floor. "No, she didn't!"

"She just did," Potter said grimly.

Hermione chimed in: "As far as I can see, she's gone far outside her mandate. For the arrest to be legal, you should have co-signed the warrant."

"I should, most definitely," Robards said, lips thinning.

Voldemort added: "If you go directly against her orders with the Auror corps, it could be troublesome, right?" He met Robards eyes, and the two Department Heads nodded at each other.

"Yes," Robards said reluctantly, "For the MLE to go against the Minister, even an acting Minister, will be seen as something of a coup."

Potter exclaimed: "Let me handle this, sir! You sign a release for Kingsley, and the Order will bring him back, without involving any more Aurors than me. I'd say the Order should have enough clout, even in Azkaban, to free Kingsley."

"I hope so, but after this event, who knows?" Robards replied, still with a dubious expression.

Voldemort added: "My sources say she's reinstated the Dementors."

Robards eyes widened again, his face distorting into a grimace, before he shook his head. "Let me get my quill," he mumbled, scrawling on a piece of parchment, before thrusting it at Potter. "Here. Go at once. There's no telling what those creatures can do, especially when it's a long time since they fed. Hurry, for Merlin’s sake!"

Xxxx

12 Grimmauld place was teeming with Order members, and he stood by, watching with amusement as Potter briefed everyone, giving instructions for their arrival at Azkaban. _He, Lord Voldemort, was about to mount an attack on Azkaban with an unsuspecting Order. In all probability, this was as good as manipulation got_.

"I'll approach the guards, and you all will stay behind me, unless they attack. Then we try to Disarm and secure. As always, no Unforgivables, no dark curses," Potter instructed. Turning to Voldemort, the young man said: "Tom, can you cast that protective spell of yours on the entire group? The one you cast on me and Ron? Then everyone will be safe, no matter what the guards decide to do."

He pursed his lips, saying slowly: "That's some heavy spellcasting, Harry. This group is … say, twenty people?"

McGonagall, the old Headmistress, said briskly: " Nonsense, Harry, that's too much for one person. We need to split up the task. No one can Shield twenty people successfully."

Though it pained him to admit it, he wasn't sure he could do it. _Besides, he couldn't afford to waste that much magic on the sodding Order, he had other things planned_. "No," he replied, giving McGonagall a small wink, "I'd like to try, but then I can't do anything else."

There was a shocked silence in the group, before Bill Weasley said, incredulously: "You think you could possibly Shield twenty people from an attack?" The red-head frowned at him, standing beside his pretty, little Veela wife, who squeezed her husband's hand in a tight grip.

_To Voldemort's shock, he realized, he actually didn't want to fuck the Veela girl, though she was undeniably beautiful, and very, very sexy. She didn’t hold a candle to his witch._

Tucking that particular bit of information aside, to be examined later, he said flippantly: "I don't know until I try, do I?" _Not that he had ever wanted to either, because protecting people wasn't really his kind of … thing_. "But I think the Headmistress is right. It probably wouldn't work."

An old, extremely scruffy-looking wizard going by the name Mundungus Fletcher muttered: "What do you need us for? Why don't we just send you and Harry in to demolish Azkaban instead?"

He shrugged, before replying with a glint in his eyes: "We might need the prison later on, don't you think?"

Bill Weasley let out a bark of laughter, showing canines that were just a tad too sharp. "Shut up, Dung," he said, not unfriendly, but with a touch of seriousness. "Showing up with the whole Order for Kingsley's release counts for something. It shows that we stand with him, not accepting any unlawful treatment of our friend."

_Exactly_ , Voldemort thought. _Spot on, Weasley, but the important part is that it also shows that I am an accepted part of the Order. There should be no questioning me after this. No allegations of darkness, I will be firmly ensconced in the midst of the Light._

Xxxx

Not surprisingly, Azkaban was just as unwelcoming as when he had seen Dolohov. The surging, grey waves crashed against the black cliff, while heavy clouds raced across the skies. The whole Order had just Apparated into the cramped courtyard, milling about, jostling into one another on the narrow strip reserved for Apparition, to allow for the comings and goings of guards, relatives and Ministry officials. The rest of the bleak stone building was reinforced with strong Anti-Apparition wards.

Blood rushing through his veins in exhilaration, he flexed his magic against the wards, wondering if he could tear them down, but those wards were strong. _And very, very familiar_. Nudging Arthur Weasley discreetly, he whispered: "Say, who set the Apparition wards the last time?"

Weasley grimaced, and muttered: "Don't tell anyone, but it was Voldemort. He reset all the wards when he took power. When he was defeated, it was just silently decided that the warding was very decent work, and there was no need to replace it."

Voldemort almost smiled, but nodded with a serious face. Hermione stood close to him, and he put his arm around her, pulling her into his body. From behind the gates, there came a shout.

"Oi, what do you lot think you're doing here? This isn't a place to hold a picnic, you know!"

A gnarled fellow stood behind the portcullis, arms crossed across his chest, wearing the grey robes of the prison guards. Several men stepped out behind him, forming a triangle with their spokesman at the point.

Voldemort forced down a wild grin, feeling excitement flutter. _The possibility of a real fight, to exercise his power…_ He desperately hoped that those guards weren't as much spineless pushovers as he thought they would be. _Fight_ , he silently willed them, not risking the use of his Legilimency here, in the midst of the Order, but still thinking: _fight, dammit_!

Potter stepped forward, his dark grey workrobes billowing in the fierce wind, voice loud and clear: "We have a release order for Kingsley Shacklebolt."

The guard spokesman snorted. "He's not to be released, not to the likes of you, at least," he said derisively. "We have our orders too."

"Listen," Potter said imperiously, reading out: "I, Gawain Robards, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, declare the immediate release of one Kingsley Shacklebolt. There are no legal grounds for keeping him in arrest. He is to be returned to freedom with no further restraints."

The guards mumbled amongst themselves, shooting glances, some looking decidedly uneasy. Keeping Hermione close, one arm protectively around her shoulder, he watched them intently, to catch the moment where the decision was swayed: A fight, or a peaceful release.

His arm twitched minutely, as he saw the spokesperson turn towards them, like in slow motion, and he cast the strongest Shield he could manage around Hermione and himself, protecting her, his heir and, as he had so blatantly, stupidly had failed to do when protecting Potter in that pub, himself.

"Attack!" the guard roared, and curses rained on the Order, Shields springing to life, as red, yellow and blue flashes clashed violently at protective fields around each witch or wizard.

He heard Hermione draw her breath in a hiss, shooting a glance at him, as she discovered the Shield he had put around her. Whipping her wand towards the guards, she flung a rapid series of hexes towards the portcullis, aiming to shatter the gate.

Nodding at her, he joined in, throwing his power in behind hers, and together, they rammed the gate repeatedly, making it groan, the metal twanging ominously with each thrust. From the corner of his eye, he saw Potter hurling hexes back at the guards with surprising speed, and MacGonagall hovering behind him, concentrating on holding a strong Protego over the young wizard and herself.

He threw a vicious " _Bombarda_!" at the gates, jabbing his wand forcefully, and the great portcullis lit up with a blinding flash of white light - dust motes preserving its form for a few seconds, before the wind brushed the dust and debris away, leaving the entrance open.

A cry rose from the Order, as the members surged forward, the guards falling back, wands bristling as they retreated.

Voldemort kept himself in check, not showing off, sending only simple red Stunners and Body-binders towards the guardsmen, blocking their curses with the Shield around him and his witch. She was deftly casting Stickfast Hexes and Oppugnos, and milder curses like Leg-lockers and Jelly-legs, aiming to incapacitate, not to do any real harm. With his Shield around her, she was concentrating fully on attacking, and he could see a small smile curling around the corners of her mouth, her eyes flashing dark as she cast spell after spell.

Potter, on the other hand, was throwing a series of unsuccessful Disarming spells, switching to Knockbacks and Impediment Jinxes, making his wand flash in a constant stream. Voldemort could very well see why Potter was considered the resident champion of the Ministry, because he was both fast, powerful and flexible.

The defending guards were surprisingly good too, some getting minor hits in on the Order, but slowly, they had to retreat, clustering around the entrance to the fortress. _Oh, the results he could get with a Reducto, an Orbis, a Confringo or an Expulso. Or simply mowing through them with the lovely green lightning flash of the Killing Curse…_ His wand hand twitched with longing, but he forced himself to stick to simple curses. _Don't kill them_ , he chanted silently in his mind, forcing his lust for violence down, _don't kill them_.

The skies darkened, a cold gust of wind swept through the courtyard, and the Order's elation turned to dismay. Flocks of Dementors were swooping in, hiding the clouds as the skies thickened into an almost solid black.

" _Expecto Patronum_!" An almost unison roar rose from the Order, and the white brilliance shrouded them from the darkness, bright animals prancing on the perimeters of the inky blackness, holding out against the despair. _Holding their own, but not advancing against the Dementors_ , he quickly noted.

Voldemort realized he was the only one without a Patronus, Hermione's otter bounding around the two of them. She stared intently up into the darkness, and he swallowed as the brilliance of the Patronuses wavered at the incoming dark. _He had conquered a flock of Dementors a few years after Hogwarts, with a spell of his own making, and after that, he hadn't had to protect himself against the black spectres. Either they had some method of exchanging news, or they recognized him as a fellow danger. But Hermione - and by proxy, the Order, was in grave danger with the hundreds of Dementors amassing over the Azkaban skies. He would have to…_

Frowning, he tightened his hold over his wand, jerking it angrily towards the Dementors, whispering: " _Atrabilious malum,_ " pouring his power into the spell, tapping into his darkest core, the liquid black fire making his spine tingle, burn and flare into lava-hot, scorching tendrils, making his eyes glaze with the thrumming power in his body. An inky black beam cut a large swathe through the Dementors, cutting them down, making them fall as crumpled, black specks from the skies, drifting like ashes, opening the view to the racing blue-grey clouds again. He moved his wand in a wide arch, bringing down as many Dementors as he could, reasoning that he could easily breed more of them when he took control. _Like everything else, they were tools, dispensable, to be used and discarded at his discretion_.

The Order mumbled around him, keeping up their Patronuses, until the Dementors fled, clearing the sky.

"What was that?" Potter shouted hoarsely, peering curiously at him as they sprinted towards the ruined gates.

"An alternative to the Patronus," he shouted back, "destroying them, instead of chasing them. Useful, when there are so many."

"Dead useful, I'd say," Potter replied with a grin. Running through the gates, they stopped short, as the guards marched forward, holding Shacklebolt at wandpoint in front of them.

Nervously swallowing, the spokesman jabbed at the former Minister, hissing: "Go! Leave us!"

The tall man shambled forward, his eyes haunted and dark, but his lips twitched in a small, tired smile as Potter embraced him, the smaller wizard patting his back hard.

Cheering went up from the Order, and Voldemort clutched Hermione to him, mumbling with satisfaction: "We made it. He's safe." _From now on, he would be considered a part of the Order in the public eye. And he'd give Potter full credits for this, showing himself as modest and willing to praise someone else. Oh yes, this was a success. And later, he'd celebrate by fucking his hot, little witch through the mattress._ His hand snaked up into her hair, crawling forwards to caress her jawline.

She turned her head up to him, eyes shining with joy and victory, and whispered: "Yes, we did it." Standing on tiptoes, she struggled to reach him, and he swooped down, catching her lips in a kiss of shared victory. _Though, he knew, they were celebrating two completely different outcomes._

Moments later, the Grimmauld kitchen was filled with laughing, happy Order members shouting celebratory cheers, frequently clinking bottles of Butterbeer, glasses of elf-made wine and tumblers with Firewhisky. The smell of a duck casserole wafting over from the oven, and a red-cheeked, happy Molly Weasley stirred the pot between large sips of the Avebury red in her goblet.

Shacklebolt himself sat slumped in a Conjured, stuffed chair, seemingly drawn and exhausted, and his voice was weary, even reedy, nothing like his usual booming rumble. Still, he looked vaguely pleased.

"Tom," he whispered, motioning for Voldemort to come closer. "Tom," he repeated, "Harry told me, you're the one who found out that she had taken me. You put all this in motion, my rescue, I mean."

"I'm sorry," Voldemort said quietly, doing his best to convey earnestness with his eyes, "I wish I had heard the news sooner, to spare you a night in Azkaban."

Shacklebolt sighed, shadows in his eyes, and he said quietly: "I'll survive. Many people spent far longer in Azkaban in the company of the Dementors."

"None of those had the dubious honour of being the Dementors' first meal in two years, my friend," Voldemort said, squeezing the former Minister's shoulder reassuringly. "You are lucky to be alive. Though I have to say, you're here because of Harry. He assembled everyone and took action. Harry saved you. I merely alerted him about what was happening."

Shacklebolt smiled, fine crinkles spreading around his eyes, and he patted Voldemort's hand, still resting on his shoulder. "You're modest, Tom, surprisingly so. I know what part you played, Harry told me."

Lifting his eyes to observe the room again, curious as to who would have witnessed this exchange - _who would tell the Prophet_? - he met the chocolate brown of Hermione's eyes. She gave him a soft smile across the room, her expression tender and caring. Holding her eyes, he felt distinctly uncomfortable by the familiarity and strange warmth rising up inside himself. _Oddly nice and equally nauseating_ . He shuffled his feet awkwardly, as he sensed his cheeks becoming flushed. To his great consternation and shame, her expression turned wicked, her eyes flashing with amusement, and she blew him a kiss, mouthing: " _Adorable_."

Xxxx

Growling, he ripped her clothes off, somehow trying to overcome the sickening comfort he had felt in the kitchen, desperately telling himself it was only desire, motions jerky like he was angry. _Nothing but lust and appreciation of her usefulness, and the fact that he possessed her_. _Nothing else!_

She laughed in surprise, pink nipples hardening at the sudden exposure, and he pushed her down on the bed, parting her legs with his thighs, sucking at one of those delicious pert breast, taking as much as he could into his mouth, laving at her with his tongue, hands squeezing those luscious tits together as he shifted his mouth from one to the other.

"Tom," she moaned, her chest flushing, "I … I … haven't told you this, but I love it when you're rough with me."

He lifted his eyes to her face, nipple still in his mouth, before it slipped out with a wet pop. "I know, love, oh, I know," he purred, his voice making her squirm on the mattress. "You love it when I take control, don't you, my wanton little princess?"

Eyes dark and wide, she nodded at him, licking her lips slowly.

The ache in his cock couldn't wait any longer, and he Divested his clothes, before crawling up to her, sitting on her chest.

"Open your mouth, witch," he panted, and she stretched out the tip of her pink tongue, opening her mouth. Grabbing his cock, he fed it to her, and as the hot warmth engulfed the head, he threw his head back, groaning. One of her hands scratched his balls lightly, and he shuddered. _Had sex ever felt so good before? He had fucked more than his share of witches, taking whatever he had wanted in the heat of the moment, but this…_

"Merlin, Hermione," he muttered, as her tongue slid over the tip, delving into the slit on the top, sucking him deeper, tongue tickling the sensitive underside. Thrusting forward, he went deeper, hitting the roof of her mouth, and she hummed around him, closing her eyes.

His breath hitched, looking at her beautiful face, clearly _enjoying_ herself with his cock between her lips. _This wouldn't do, not at all, or he'd shoot as fast as a teenager_.

Groaning, he grabbed his cock, prying himself from that heavenly feeling, moving down her body with blood throbbing uncomfortably in his shaft.

Spreading her legs, he dipped down to taste her, licking those wet, shiny lips between her legs with long, bold strokes, circling around her clit to make her arch up.

"Pinch your nipples," he ordered, looking up at her, and her hands came down to stroke and roll her breasts. She gasped, hips thrusting up at him, and he plunged two fingers inside her, pumping fast, tongue laving at her wet slit.

"Tom," her voice was a breathy moan, "oh Tom, this is… just a little harder, oh, please…"

With a snarl, he rolled her over, dragging her hips up to meet his, before slamming into her. "You're so tight, little witch, you feel so good, wrapped around my cock," he panted, and she gasped in time with the hard thrusts he pounded her with. Underneath him, she snaked a hand between her legs to play with her clit, clenching her walls around his cock rhythmically.

There was a buzzing in his ears, and as from afar, he heard their bodies slapping together, but bliss was whizzing down his spine, a white hot flame shooting into his balls, making him tingle, and he groaned. _He was almost there, but she hadn't finished yet_. Grunting, no longer able to use his voice properly, he commanded her: "Come on my cock, _now_ , Hermione, come for me!"

She whimpered, body tensing, and he desperately tried to hold off the blooming pleasure in his shaft, growling one more time: "Now, Hermione! Come for L…" He stopped himself at the very last moment, but his orgasm was already tearing through his body, shooting up his cock, and he shook, pumping her hard, vaguely noting that she was shaking, releasing muffled little cries into the pillows, convulsing around his cock, squeezing out the last of his come.

Standing on all four above her, panting, he collapsed to the side, pulling her into a spoon.

"Morgana, Tom," she said weakly, her legs still shaking and twitching, "I wouldn't have thought this could get better, but by the gods, this was mind-blowing."

Burrowing his face into her hair, he nodded, not sure if he was able to speak just yet. _This was close. He had almost blown his cover._ For once, he felt like he could forgive himself for being stupid. _Mind-blowing. That was the word, indeed_. His mind felt slow, sluggish and lazy.

As his heartbeat slowly returned to normal, he pondered: _He had been very sloppy around her. Why? This wasn't like him at all_. First and foremost, he was cool and calculated, doing everything according to his plan, being something of a perfectionist. _It was almost like he wanted her to know_. _Did he really? Because one thing was sure, she'd never accept him as Lord Voldemort. It would ruin everything he had worked so carefully to build._

He grimaced, stroking her silky, cooling skin, still sweaty, nuzzling her shoulder. _It was not like he needed Hermione Granger to accept him. Not at all!_ But she was so smart, and apart from the Malfoys who had had the dubious pleasure of sharing a house with his snake-faced self, and would thus be more familiar with his mannerisms and style, she was the most likely to find him out. The rest of the old Death Eaters were, except for Selwyn, mostly held prisoner or dead. _Hermione Granger was the biggest threat to his new empire, as well as his best asset._

"What was that spell you used?" she asked, voice curious and alert, "on the Dementors, I mean."

He groaned. "Oh Hermione, even I can't think straight after this, but you, you want to talk about magic? Now?" _In fact, he had rather hoped she wouldn't inquire too much about the spell._

"I mean, why didn't you cast a Patronus? I'm sure you, with your power, could have chased them off."

Stilling, he knew there was nothing for it. _He couldn't possibly fake a Patronus, nor take the risk of trying to produce one, and knowing her, she would not give up this line of questioning_. "Love, I can't cast a Patronus to save my life."

She half-turned in his arms, hand trailing over his chest, stroking him, and she said: "Why?"

Her eyes were bright, as she looked up at him.

Sighing deeply, he said: "I've never managed it. Besides, there are … things … I've done, which may or may not be compatible with the Patronus."

"Dark things," she stated, eyes locked on his, her face serious and pensive.

"Yes," he replied, not looking away.

Sighing, she said: "You know far more about dark magic than one could expect, Tom. I mean, I know a lot, much more than anyone I know of, but my knowledge compared to yours is nothing. My conclusion is that you must have studied the dark arts extensively and intensively. And used them as well."

He answered, keeping his voice level, hoping against hope she wouldn't notice his pulse picking up again: "We're swots, Hermione, both of us. And I'm older than you. It means, I have had the opportunity to do more reading and experimenting."

"Yes, well.." her face closed up, and she faced away from him, hunching her shoulders, withdrawing from him, hiding her emotions.

_Damn. He thought he had her, but no. She was still suspicious, even after Shacklebolt’s rescue. He'd have to do something for her, to ensure her trust. Something special, something just for her. And time was running out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my headcanon, I think Voldemort would have needed some way to protect himself from Dementors, as he wouldn't be able to use the Patronus Charm. Thus, I had him create a spell to destroy Dementors, making them fear him.


	19. Gifts and Gestures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His witch had just hexed the reporter, and he wasn't quite sure what the hex would do. Given her satisfied expression, he was sure it would be nasty.
> 
> Quirking his lips, he said: "Oh, you shouldn't have, darling." She gave him a wicked little smile, her mood considerably brighter than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom needs to make up to Hermione, soothing her suspicions, so... A gesture, or a gift of sorts would be appropriate, wouldn't it? ;-)

Drinking deeply of his pint, a lovely, creamy coffee stout, almost black in colour, and with a tantalizing taste of roast coffee beans, he paused momentarily, scanning the pub again. Ron Weasley was in a corner, glaring at them, while Potter tried surreptitiously to watch his former best friend from the corner of his eye.

Weasley had been thoroughly checked at St. Mungo's, his family claiming he must be ill, but they had found nothing apart from the Splinch. Since then, he'd been on the loose, cavorting, taking illegal potions, and if the rumours were true, selling his services as a fully trained Auror on the black market, doing less-than-wholesome tasks for people who didn't want to get dirty. In fact, Voldemort felt Weasley had grown on him. With the lowering of his inhibitions and the destruction of his emotional range, he had proven to be useful. _It was almost a shame he couldn't keep him around after he had fulfilled his task._

Again, they were out on a spy mission, Potter wanting to check on Weasley, while Weasley scowled at them, having discovered them the moment they entered the pub half an hour ago. The man was well into his fifth Firewhisky since they had arrived, looking more inebriated by the second. Not once had the two former friends acknowledged each other, apart from the odd glances and scowls. Voldemort grinned, as the dark, smooth texture of the beer flowed down his throat. _Well, he could just as well use this opportunity to interrogate Potter, to better solve the problem with his witch._

Turning to Potter, he said: "If I were to do something for Hermione, something important, what would you recommend? I want to make her happy."

Potter blinked, pursing his lips. "Errr, well… Something really important, not like flowers and such?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

"Umm, maybe … could you bring back her parents?"

" _ **T**_ ** _he Muggles_**?" he said, flabbergasted.

"Yes, they're still Obliviated and in Australia, you know. She misses them, but she hasn't had the means to get them treated. Turns out treating a big Obliviate like that at St. Mungo's is bloody expensive. The Ministry refuses to cover the costs, as she Obliviated them on her own initiative."

Voldemort frowned, looking away. _Healing Muggles from an Obliviate. Merlin, it was disgusting. It was well within what he was able to, but using his power to restore the memories of a Muggle, no less two of them…!_ He felt his mouth ripping into a grimace of distaste, and lifted his pint again to hide his expression.

Swallowing deeply, he stated to Potter, trying to hide the flatness of his tone: "She misses them."

"Yes," Potter confirmed. "She doesn't regret it, as she still thinks it was the best course of action, but she misses them terribly. Since she started working, she's been saving up for the costs of Healing. I think she's estimated about five more years before she has enough money. Like I said, it's bloody expensive."

Voldemort sighed. "Thanks for the advice, Harry. I'll see what I can do." _Though it was thoroughly disgusting, this was a grand enough gesture. An act that also would make her believe he had nothing against Muggles, unlike the version of Lord Voldemort she was familiar with. Something that would be shoring up his image as a good guy, despite his apparent interest in dark magic. Fuck, having her Muggle parents around wasn't exactly something he'd look forward to, but he'd manage for a while. If there was one thing he and the snake-faced version of him had in common, it was despising Muggles._

In the far corner, Weasley now had his tongue down the throat of a drunk, blonde and busty witch. Potter rolled his eyes, before saying quietly: "I'm not sure I want to see more of him tonight."

Xxxx

Getting an International Port-key to Australia had been a remarkably quick process. It had been even easier to Stun the Grangers, Shrink and stuff their belongings in a bag and bring them back to England on the return trip two hours later.

Deliberately, he had collected Delphini on his way to the apartment he had secured for the next week, figuring that they'd be more at ease on waking up by seeing a stranger with a child, as opposed to an unknown young man on his own.

The apartment was nice enough for a shorter stay. Making the owner rushing off to a sudden "family emergency" in Ireland had been a fun little set-up, and though the apartment was small, it suited his needs, being in a popular neighbourhood where people often rented out their homes to other Muggles. Voldemort shook his head. _Renting out one's home like a hotel was one sick thing to do. He'd never understand Muggles. They were quite obviously not rational beings, apparently enjoying other people rifling through their belongings._

It was the middle of the day, and everyone else in the building should be out and about. Still, he warded the apartment with a wave of his wand. _Who knew what kind of sounds the Muggles could be making upon awakening in a strange place?_

"Why are they sleeping?" Delphini asked, peering curiously at the pair, as he Floated them onto the bed.

"I made them sleep," he said, giving his small daughter a smile.

Her eyes widened comically, her mouth rounding into a small 'o'. Blinking rapidly, she asked: "Can I do it too? Please?"

He laughed, feeling oddly pleased, and replied: "Maybe not yet, but I can show you later. Now, if you can sit quietly over there, I'm going to repair something in their heads. It won't be anything to see, so I suggest you find something to play with while I work."

She nodded, sitting down in a chair, producing her play wand. Whispering softly to herself, she started casting those easy spells she had learned from him and Hermione.

Concentrating, he slid through the open, unseeing eyes of Jean Granger and into her mind. The cut-off memories were easily recognizable, like a large island floating by itself, disconnected from the rest of her mind. Meticulously, he started to build a bridge to reconnect the island with the main part of her mind. As soon as the connection was finished, memories would start to flow into her conscious mind, merging and fusing with her sense of self, slowly expanding the bridge into solid land all around the island of isolated memories. 

This phase was the reason why restoring memories were so expensive, as traditional treatment required daily sessions of Legilimency and a strict regime of rare, difficult and expensive potions for the first weeks to ensure that the patient didn't go mad in the process, and then bi-weekly check-ups and additional potions for a year. Having one's memories returned could be a very difficult process, as beliefs, feelings and facts seemed to collide, creating a strong disorientation and a feeling of not knowing what was real or unreal.

 _Well_ , he chuckled to himself, _a difficult and expensive process if one didn't take the easy, logical and illegal route._

 _"Imperio!_ " he mouthed silently, making sure Delphini didn't catch what he said, pointing his wand at the Granger woman, silently commanding her to accept the rush of memories crowding into the recesses of her mind.

Repeating the process with John Granger, he rose, saying to Delphini: "We're done."

The child nodded, her eyes locked on the small bluebell flame she was bouncing on her palm, and he turned to the Muggles lying prone on the bed.

" _Rennervate_!"

They gasped, as they sat up in bed.

"Where are we, what…" the woman mumbled, clutching her head, a pained expression on her face.

"Who are you?" the man said, blinking owlishly at Voldemort.

"He's my brother," Delphini said proudly, jumping down from her chair to take Voldemort's hand. "He Healed you. You were ill, and had to sleep."

They nodded, still dazed, peering at the child and himself, and he almost grinned. _Disoriented Muggles in pain, that's how it should be_. "That's right," he said politely. "I'm Tom Riddle, and this my sister Delphini. When you're feeling better in a few days, I'll take you to Hermione."

"Hermione…!" the Muggles chorused, a look of wonder in their still vacant eyes, and then a small tear trickled down the woman's cheek. "Hermione…, oh, my baby, _Hermione_ ," she wailed with a sob.

Voldemort sighed, silently reinforcing the Imperius curse. He'd have to check up on them a few times a day to make sure they didn't shatter their minds. _It wouldn't do to go through all this trouble, only to have their minds crumbling at the last moment._

Catching a glimpse of Delphini's expression, he almost snorted, as his little daughter rolled her eyes in visible disgust at the sight of the crying Muggles hugging each other on the bed.

Xxxx

The Head meeting was stormy, strong emotions and uncertainty roiling under the blank expressions of the eight people in the room.

Voldemort leaned back in his chair, which was now permanently Charmed into being more comfortable than its appearance, steepling his fingers under his chin. _Now, very soon, it would happen_. He felt calm, cool and collected. Selwyn, the acting Minister, was drawn, looking older than her years, while Robards was scowling darkly at her, his grey eyes not leaving her for a moment, like he expected the old witch to start casting Unforgivables all over the conference room.

Looking at the rest of the Heads, Voldemort couldn't hide his grin any longer, covering it up behind his cup of strong, black tea. He, thanks to himself and the efforts of Lucius Malfoy, had in recent weeks made sure that each and every other Department Head had been forced out, either through curses, revelations of actual, unsavoury behaviour and financial troubles. The remaining senior members of the cabinet were Selwyn, Robards and now, himself.

The rest had been replaced in Shacklebolt's final weeks, but they were only temporarily raised to the positions of Heads, Shacklebolt choosing to leave the actual appointments to the Minister-to-be. Malfoy had been busy though, and at the moment, the right people held the positions as acting Heads. _Those who believed in the facade of Tom Riddle, good guy extraordinaire._

Selwyn cleared her throat, closing her eyes for a brief moment as if she tried desperately to compose herself, before she said, voice breaking slightly: "I apologize. I made a mistake. However, I offer to sit, not lifting a hand unless approved by you all, and then retreating quietly and quickly after the election."

Murmurs rose, and then Robards spat: "You committed a crime, _Minister_! You are gravely mistaken if you think the Department of Magical Law Enforcement will let this pass."

A voice rose, belonging to the elderly Zebeus Joulson, the acting Head of Transport: "Really, Robards, it's less than two weeks to the election. Why force your hand now? She has already promised not to step outside the boundaries we set in this meeting."

Robards snorted, giving the old, frail looking wizard a dirty look. "Like _she_ respects the office she's entrusted with? Look at her actions!"

A squabble broke out, voices raised, as the Heads argued the different opinions.

He met Selwyn's eyes over the table, and gave her a small nod, before he flicked his fingers, making a small starburst bloom over the conference table to get everyone's attention.

"Ladies, gentlemen," he said, voice reasonable and firm, "let's solve this without resolving to toddler tactics. I propose," he paused, looking at each and everyone of them, noting that he had their full attention, "we keep Jeanette Selwyn as acting Minister. After what happened, it's very unlikely that she'll stand in the election. Am I right, Jeanette?"

The old witch nodded, giving him a grateful look. Robards furrowed his brows, opening his mouth, but Voldemort stalled him by lifting his hand: "Now, Gawain, I know how you feel, but think about this: If you're going to stand in the election, it will be awkward from a position as acting Minister."

Robards opened his mouth, closing it, before he said gruffly: "I will not stand. I've never wanted that particular position. Tom, I was thinking about you. The rest here, no offence, people, they're too new on this level of office. You, at least, have been in the position for two months, and you've shown a very good grasp on politics and besides, you have the right _priorities_." The look he shot at Selwyn was positively venomous.

 _It was time_. Smiling, he said to Robards: "But you see, I am going to stand. I cannot be acting Minister."

The silence wasn't long, before the entire group was mumbling along the lines of:

"Good, good, I was going to suggest that, actually…"

"Good luck, you have my support, at least…"

"Wonderful news, Tom, I've been waiting for this…"

Flashing them a smile, he said: "Does this mean I have the cabinet's support in the campaign?"

The witches and wizards looked at each other, before they all nodded. "You are our best choice for the position right now," a tall, dark-haired beauty representing the Games and Sports Department said, her voice a deep, rich tone.

Selwyn took her cue, and said in a reedy voice: "Everyone supports Tom in the election, then. And I'll sit quiet as a mouse until then."

Slowly, they nodded again, even Robards. "It'll have to do," he said grimly, before shooting at Selwyn: "But I'm watching you, every step of the way, if you try to pull any tricks, witch!"

_Having the cabinet at his back in the election would count for a lot. Though, he was sure, he would have no real opposition. He would take care of that._

Xxxx

Disillusioned, he stepped inside Selwyn’s office, where Malfoy and Selwyn were already waiting for him. Rescinding the Glamour, he locked and warded the doors, like he expected someone of Dumbledore’s strength to try to break in or eavesdrop. _No one was to see nor listen to this conversation._

“So, who do you suggest?” ha asked, dragging a chair over to sit in front of the two of them. 

Selwyn had her tea service out, and the two of them were sipping from steaming mugs. 

Casting a Detection spell discreetly over the pot and the dainty, flower-patterned cup he was offered, he made certain it was safe. _He didn’t trust the two of them, not fully, and it was always prudent to check. Though, he’d be surprised if they dared go against him._

Malfoy shrugged. Today, he wore a light blue silk coat, with a frilly - _frilly! Voldemort noted in disgust -_ silvery shirt underneath. “Those who are not a threat, who have a few known faults, but are still believable.” 

“I agree,” Selwyn said, appropriately dressed in a plain black silk robe. “We would suggest Andromeda Tonks and Leonard Avery.” 

Voldemort nodded slowly. “Tonks will do, she’s not popular and cannot gather enough support on her own, but people will believe her candidature. As for Avery… Is that really a good idea? I mean, how many people will believe that a former known Death Eater is hoping to win the election?” 

“It makes perfect sense, my Lord,” Malfoy said quickly, threading his finger through his long blonde hair. “You’ll be the candidate in the middle, the convincing and popular choice, who’ll get the support of everyone. They will get only a marginal amount of the votes.” 

“Are there anyone else who’ll stand?” he asked, because one thing was how the three of them would rig the election, but there was bound to be unpleasant surprises. _There always were._

Selwyn barked a short laugh. “Yes, there are. Don’t worry, my Lord. The rest are Ollivander’s eldest daughter - she’s a lunatic, best known for riding a Hippogriff naked through Hogsmeade every Sunday, and Xenophilius Lovegood, editor at the Quibbler. Plus, there are a few low-level minor Ministry employees, but none of them are well known. The election will be a walk in the park.” 

“And if not,” he said, eyes glittering, “we’ll make it so.” 

Xxxx

The morning paper was bad, but it couldn't ruin his good mood. An anonymous source claimed that his dueling style at Azkaban was shockingly like Voldemort, again posing the question if he really was the Dark Lord coming back from the dead.

Sipping his espresso, he figured, it was unlikely the source was someone from the Order. They all seemed convinced by him. Though, he conceded, they might have noticed the similarities in style. _After all, as it was true, it wouldn't be that surprising. But to go as far as tipping off a reporter? No, it was hard to believe. It was even more unlikely that the source was one of the guards. They were too isolated on that godforsaken rock._

In all probability, it was a mere speculation, a malicious rumour spread by someone who wanted to harm him, like the former Department Heads. Still, he had to investigate this further. Smiling grimly, he thought: _If there really was someone believing him to be Lord Voldemort, they had to be absolute **idiots** if they thought he wouldn't retaliate. _

"Why are you smiling?" his witch demanded crankily, sitting across the table at the coffee shop, nibbling her dry toast and her weak tea, looking decidedly greenish-tinged. The morning sickness plagued her still, and after she had obsessively read countless research papers discussing the pros and cons of prenatal potions, she had refused to drink even the mildest and well-known concoctions, not wanting to take any chances with the health and well-being of the baby.

He shook his head, not understanding why she wanted to suffer needlessly. He had read the same articles too - _it was his heir, after all_ \- but he thought the research results rather evened out. _The probability of any harm was really very low. Though, he appreciated her protectiveness_.

"I wondered …" he stopped, seeing her scowl at something behind him. Turning slightly, he sighed. _Another reporter_. A young woman this time, dressed smartly in sea-green robes, and with expertly done make-up. She just had to be from the Witch Weekly.

"Miss Granger!" the journalist said as she came up to their table. "How perfectly lovely to see the two of you having a romantic breakfast together. Our readers are just so curious as to how you handle the terrifying rumours about your boyfriend."

Hermione frowned even more, giving the journalist a nasty glare. "I don't want to…" she began, but the journalist smoothly overrode her objections:

"Tell us, do you secretly love a bad guy? Is it the excitement of riding the edges of danger that drew you into his arms? Is it the fact that he's a powerful wizard or his looks that makes your heart beat faster? Or is he genuinely a good wizard, burdened by his father's sins?"

The woman looked expectantly at Hermione, who almost spluttered in rage, her face turning a violent shade of red. He watched in fascination as the ends of her hair emitted small sparks, and her hands clenched the corners of the table top. For a moment, he seriously believed she was going to attack the journalist.

Suddenly, she smoothed her features, saying with a smile, though her eyes remained stormy: "People shouldn't listen to rumours. Tom is a good wizard, and I find it offensive that people would believe anything like that. He doesn't deserve it, and that's all I will say in this matter. You won't get anything else from me, so please, let us finish our breakfast in peace."

The journalist pouted slightly, but realized from the stony look in Hermione's eyes that a retreat would be the best course of action. As she took her leave, he almost missed it, the faint brush of Hermione's magic whisking past him, settling on the reporter. _His witch had just hexed the reporter_. He wasn't quite sure what the hex would do, but he was sure it would be nasty, given Hermione's satisfied expression.

Quirking his lips, he said: "Oh, you shouldn't have, darling." She gave him a wicked little smile, her mood considerably brighter than before. _She had defended him, again, without being asked to do it. It still felt like a novelty to him, but, he figured, he could get used to it. Someone who got his back, without being ordered to do it..._

He shook himself from that pointless, silly reverie, and said: "Like I was trying to say, would you'd have lunch with me at Grimmauld today? Around twelve?"

She blushed slightly, before giving him a prim, arched eyebrow: "One of _those_ lunches, is it? I haven't seen you much over the last week."

"No, " he said truthfully, "something different. I want you to meet someone, actually."

Her face shone with curiosity, as she responded: "Of course! Can you tell me something more about them?"

"No," he said with a cheeky grin. "I can't. It's a surprise."

Xxxx

Come lunch time, the Grangers were sitting in the library, clutching their hands as they waited to see their daughter. The bright light of noon shone through the tall windows, making patches of warm sunlight on the polished, wooden floor. 

He had had to cast the Imperius curse several times over the last week, but now, it seemed they were alright, memories fully immersed in their mind. He supposed they were nice enough people, if one liked Muggles, that is.

 _Luckily, Muggles got ill or died in car accidents all the time._ As of yet, he was still undecided on which one was the most annoying, Mrs. or Mr. Granger. Though, he'd allow Hermione to keep them both around for the time being, before he got rid of them, starting with whichever one irritating him the most.

"I'm here!" The front door slammed, and they could hear Hermione's steps in the hall.

"In the library!" he shouted, giving the Grangers an excited smile. _She was going to love this. She was going to love_ **_him_** _, all doubts dispensed with._

The Grangers smiled tremulously, slowly rising from the sofa as they still held hands.

 _She was wearing heels today_ , he thought, hearing the click-clack of her shoes coming up the stairs. Inappropriately enough, his cock twitched, as he imagined her on her back in his bed, long legs stretched up into the air, wearing nothing but silk stockings, a garter belt and high heels. _Oh yes, he'd see the pale globes of her arse framed by the stockings and straps of the garter belt, her pink pussy glistening tantalizingly before his eyes. He'd lift her hips, putting her legs over his shoulders, slamming his cock inside that tight, wet cunt…._

Swallowing, he banished all thoughts of his sexy, enticing witch being naked. _Even for him, thinking about sex with her parents present was a step too far._

She opened the door to the library, saying: "Tom, I'm still curious…" All motions stopped, as her eyes widened, tears welling forth in her eyes, and she whimpered: "Oh! Mum, Dad?"

They smiled at her, both of them opening their arms, and she flew to them, embracing them both.

"Do you know me? Do you _remember_?"

"Yes, baby, we do, Tom explained it all to us, why you did it, we love you so much, we're so proud of you, darling!"

The scene descended into crying, sniffling, hugging and too much talk of love and forgiveness. Sighing - _this was as he had expected, but still cloyingly, sickening sweet_ \- Lord Voldemort made himself scarce, going down into the kitchens to make himself a cuppa.

Xxxx

She was standing by the kitchen door, eyes bright and shining, hair mussed into a halo around her face, positively radiating happiness. Something tugged inside his chest, and that strange, warm feeling welled up as he took in her exuberant delight. _Oh, she was pretty, no doubt, but it was the fact that he had made her this happy that bowled him over. Yes, he had planned to, of course, to secure her, but why did he feel this way because she was happy? It was difficult to wrap his mind around the fact. Rightly, he should be pleased because his plans had succeeded, not because everyone's darling, the albeit bossy and annoying Golden Girl, was beaming at him_.

Showing his self-doubts aside, he raised an eyebrow, saying with a smile: "It worked out then?"

"Oh, Tom, I can't believe you did this for me!" She threw herself into his lap, hugging him hard, as she peppered his jaw with little kisses. "This was the greatest gift I could ever receive, I've missed them so much!"

"I can understand that," he murmured into her hair. "Harry told me you were saving up for the treatment, but I wanted to speed it up. Now, with the baby, I thought you'd be sure to want your parents around."

She nodded, smiling up at him with tearful eyes, before she said, face serious: "Even if I could have afforded the potions, that is, if I had managed to brew them myself, I mean, those potions are fiendishly difficult, the cost of hiring a skilled Legilimens is incredibly high, both in Australia and here. As it were, I wanted this to be done professionally."

He smiled, kissing her hair, saying: "You could have asked, you know. I want you to be happy."

There it was again, that awful tugging warmth, as her eyes brimmed over. "I can't believe you did that for me," she sniffled, "for my parents..."

_He didn't think his witch would take kindly to the rough and ready approach with the Imperius without an explanation, though it was obviously working very well. She was bound to wonder how this had been done so fast, as the Healing process usually lasted over a year for people to be fully accepting of their memories in cases of huge Obliviates, with a very uncertain success rate. It was better to explain before she had a chance to ponder._

"Darling," he said softly, trying to convey that awkward, uncertain, nauseating warmth inside his chest. _It could be utilized for something useful, couldn't it, instead of being just a nuisance? It would make him sound convincing, at least_. "I would do anything for you within my power. I have to tell you, though, you might not like the way I did this."

She shook her head, whispering: "Never. Whatever you did, this is worth it, to me."

"Alright," he said dubiously, launching into an explanation. "In the far East, people use curses similar to the Imperius for treating mental illnesses. When dealing with a large Obliviate like this, the problem is, as you know, to get the patients to accept the immersion of memories. Using the Imperius is faster and much more easier on the patient than the traditional treatment, but still, you must monitor the patients with Legilimency, to adjust the strength of the spell. The idea is slowly easing up the Imperius. I did this, Hermione. I used an Unforgivable to heal your parents."

Her eyes were big and dark as she looked at him, biting her lip. He waited, breath bated. _Why was her opinion something that mattered so much_?

Her face broke into a radiant smile. "Tom, I don't care. This obviously worked wonders. I have my parents back, safe and sound, and they were spared a long, torturous process that may or may not have been successful. This … is perfect."

He let out that breath with a woosh, feeling relief trickle into his whole being, and kissed her soundly.

The Grangers stepped into the kitchen, but holding themselves in the background, until the two of them broke up the kiss, and he turned towards the Muggles invading his kitchen.

"We are immensely grateful," John Granger said, as his wife nodded. "You've given us back our life, our daughter, and we understand we're even going to be grandparents. Thank you, Tom, for helping us. I can see you love our daughter very much."

Not missing a beat, he nodded, saying gruffly: "I do. I want her to be happy."

Jean Granger smiled, eyes still tearful, whispering softly: "Thank you for caring for us over the last week, and for taking so good care of our daughter. We look forward to getting to know you better, Tom, to have you in the family."

Hermione gave a great, rasping sob, clutching his neck, as she whispered: "Mum, Dad, you know, I love him so much. He is the best."

_And gods, how he wanted to laugh. This had worked. He had her trust, and he would get rid of the Muggles sometime later. And today, it was 30 April. Everything was ready for the Victory Celebration in two days._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy or manipulative? I swear, I'm not going down the fluff route. He's still a callous sociopath who doesn't give a Knut for destroying people's life and sanity. I tried to aim for balancing his murderous tendencies with the fact that he does feel something for her, without the whole chapter ending up in pure pink fluff. Please, tell me what you think!


	20. Entrapment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'd never thought he'd do anything as asinine like this in his whole life, but he consoled his wounded pride by telling himself it was a great public display. He would benefit from this, no matter the loss of his dignity.

"You did something amazing, there," Ginny Weasley said to him with a soft smile. Hermione had taken her parents to the drawing room, still catching up over tea, and he kept to the kitchen, feeling like he had had enough of the Muggles for today. _Or for the next year_ , he thought darkly, wondering how soon he'd be able to finish them off. He supposed Hermione would want them to meet the baby, at least. _Oh well, he was stuck with them for the better part of a year, then. That is, if he wanted to indulge his witch._

Sighing, he gave a tired smile to Weasley. "Thanks. I'd do anything for her, you know."

Potter chimed in: "It truly was, I haven't seen her this happy in years. But Tom, tell me, how did you do it? I mean, this is supposed to take a long time, isn't it?"

Giving the two of them an assessing glance, he wondered how open they'd be for his alternative Healing method. "Well, I suppose that's a valid question," he said slowly. _If it blew up in his face, he could always Obliviate them._

So he told them about the Imperius Curse and its usefulness, and he was surprised to see them both nodding. Not so righteous, and not nearly so Gryffindoresque prim as he'd have thought. _It just proved, people were unreliable and dangerous. When you thought you had them pegged, they reacted completely out of character. It was a good thing he was flexible and astute,_ he noted to himself.

"The important thing is that it worked," Ginny Weasley said decisively, her red hair bobbing, and her small hands were folded across her barely visible baby bump.

"Yes," Potter said, before he smiled mischievously: "As long as you don't go about Imperio'ing people left and right."

"No, I won't, this was a once in a lifetime-case," he replied, acting affronted.

Potter shook his head, patting his shoulder with a fond smile: "I'm only joking. Though I bet, with your power, you do a very wicked Imperius. It would be fun to see."

Xxxx

 _Splash!_

The water sloshed around in the tub as he sat down.

"Tom," she said mock accusingly as he pulled her into his body, "we'll never be on time like this."

"How about a quickie," he murmured teasingly in her ear. "One of those where you come screaming on my cock?"

She smiled, leaning her head back at his shoulder, rubbing her arse lazily at his crotch. Her body was wet and slick with water, and he curled his hands around her breasts, playing with her nipples, making them harden.

"If it is one of those…" she said, moaning slightly, eyes becoming unfocused with desire. He stirred against her backside, cock growing with need, and he slithered one hand down towards her mound.

"Like this?" he whispered into her ear, nibbling softly on her earlobe.

"Mmm, yeah," she moaned, rolling her head on his shoulder, her long, wet hair tickling his chest.

"Like this too?" he asked, dipping his fingers into her slit, stroking her little nub.

"Absolutely!" Sending him a lascivious glance, she shimmied her buttocks further up against his now fully erect cock.

"Getting wet, are we, little witch?" his voice came out almost like a grunt, as her arse slid along his length, rubbing him so deliciously.

"Soaking wet, so ready for your big cock," she whispered, twisting her head to lick his throat.

What came out of his mouth was a feral growl, and he pushed her forward, raising her up on all fours in the tub. "Brace yourself, little minx", he snarled, nudging her forward with his hips, making her scramble in the water to get a hold on the tub's side.

Grasping her hips roughly, he took himself in hand, rubbing his cock up and down her glistening slit, aiming for her sweet little hole. Firmly, he pushed inside her, feeling that blissful throbbing in his cock as she stretched around him, her tight opening widening to make room for him.

"Yes, Tom, that's it," she panted, arching her back up at him, the water sloshing with his movements.

Starting a fast rhythm, he fucked her with even strokes, pumping in and out of her, one hand moving forward to play with her clit.

"Oooh, more, right there, oh, Tom…" She was on the verge of coming, when someone knocked on the door.

"Hermione, are you still in there? We need to get dressed, very soon, or we'll be late!" Ginny Weasley's voice was a little plaintive.

"Fuck!" his witch swore, her breath coming in erratic gasps, and he felt her walls trembling around his cock. Grinning wickedly, he started to pump her cunt faster, the hand at her clit getting rougher, and she released a high moan.

"Hermione, are you alright?" Weasley sounded worried, still right outside the door.

She turned around, sending him a panicky look, her pretty face red with humiliation, whispering "Stop!"

He shook his head, pulling her back, slamming her on his cock, and she panted, her muscles tensing up, before she squeaked, voice high-pitched and trembling: "Yes, Ginny, I'll be right there! I just … stubbed … my toe…, you go downstairs, and I'll … be … coming... right now!"

The last words was a shout, and she bucked against him, thrashing in his grip, and he groaned, incredibly aroused by having her so embarrassed, so humiliated and still so very excited, pulsing around his shaft. _It was fucking unbelievable_. He wanted her so much, his cock felt iron hard as he slid in and out of her tight sheath, and making her submit to her lust like this, coercing her to come even with the shame she felt for her friend listening in, feeling her body giving in to his will, was heaven.

"Ok," Weasley said, and he could hear her steps retreating along the corridor. Groaning, he speeded up his thrusts, fucking her harder, their bodies making wet slaps against each other, while she muttered something incoherently, still convulsing and clenching him. Voldemort felt his balls tighten, his cock impossibly hardening more, before he stiffened, grunting as he emptied himself into her, waves of light dancing behind his eyes, his body riding the bliss as he slowed his movements inside her.

"You…" she muttered, shaking with silent laughter, "I'm sure she got it. You didn't help me at all, you bastard."

He chuckled weakly as he withdrew from her. "I aim to please, you know. If she knew, she should have left earlier, shouldn't she? It's her problem, not mine."

"It's my problem, you daft man," she giggled, smacking his hands. "Now, she'll interrogate me, wanting all the sordid details."

"Ah, well." With satisfaction rolling through his body, he couldn't resist making her blush. "Just tell her, whatever she and Potter is up to, she'll never experience something as amazing as this. The main thing being, she's nothing like **_you_**."

The result was extremely fulfilling: His beautiful, thoroughly debauched-looking witch blushed from head till toe, her mouth falling slightly open and her eyes almost glistened.

Xxxx

Once again, he and Potter were waiting for the ladies in the Hall. Potter looked at the watch, tapping his foot nervously.

"We're going to be late," he said, chugging down his Firewhisky, setting the tumbler down on the small table by the umbrella stand made from a troll leg.

Voldemort shrugged. "We'll make an entrance," he said lazily, smiling a little by the thought of why they were late.

Moments later, the ladies appeared on the top of the stairs, chattering with easy smiles.

Voldemort felt his mouth dry up. She looked fabulous, there was no other word for it. Ginny Weasley was just a vague shape to the left of his witch, disappearing into the shadow of his Golden Girl. And she truly was tonight, wearing a deep, rich golden silk gown, flowing down from underneath her breasts, the tight halterneck at the top displaying her torso to its utmost advantage. Her unruly brown tresses were pinned up, with a few curls artfully escaping down her neck. But all he took in, was the light in her dark eyes as she looked at him.

He was barely aware of the fact that he was staring with his mouth open, as she descended the stairs to him.

Gathering her up in his arms, he breathed: "You're stunning." And, being the vain creature he knew himself to be, he couldn't help adding: "Everyone's going to envy me, having the Golden Girl on my arm."

She blushed prettily, before saying: "I liked the dress so much, I had to wear it, though they will write that awful … nickname … all over the front page of the Prophet, I know."

He smirked, thinking: _They will indeed. He knew exactly what would be the cover photo tomorrow._

Xxxx

The Victory Ball was at Hogwarts, and the Great Hall shone with thousands of slender tapers floating up by the ceiling, the enchanted roof mirroring the red, dying rays of the sun. The Hall was filled with people from the Ministry, former and current teachers, students and people from the Order of the Phoenix.

Stepping inside, he shivered slightly by the thought that he had died in here. _He had always wanted to avoid death, and now, he had a new life in another age. Still, he needed to find a way to become immortal - truly immortal._

The Horcruxes were obviously not a failsafe method. There was some interesting research on prolonging life, but he wouldn't be able to spend enough time on this before he had secured the power. Then, the Department of Mysteries would be reformed, concentrating the research on prolonging life and fight death. _That is, prolonging_ **_his_ ** _life. He couldn't care less about other people's life or death, unless their death was at his wand point._

His entourage, consisting of Hermione, Potter and Ginny Weasley, was greeted by almost everyone, and they moved about, shaking hands and making small talk. He held a fluted glass of champagne in his hand, while Potter swilled a tumbler of Firewhisky. The two ladies kept to pumpkin juice, but he could see Hermione eyeing his glass with envy.

Moving about, he could feel _something_ , like a residue of magic, something well known. Glancing around, he thought it came from a series of glass cases along the far wall.

"What's that?" he nudged Potter, pointing at the exhibition.

"That? Oh, it's stuff from the war. It's supposed to keep us from forgetting," Potter said, before muttering sourly: "As if we'd ever forget _that_."

"Oh," he said with curiosity, moving over to take a look. The hum of magic became stronger, more familiar, almost like… _It was his wand. There it was, pale and beautiful, looking like it was newly polished and well cared for_. He could positively feel it vibrating, glancing at Potter, he wondered if Potter could feel it too, twin core business and all.

The young man frowned, like he had an itch to scratch, but shrugged it off.

"It's just stuff like that. His wand, well, they've never shown that before, I don't know where they dug it up from - you know, we talked about that - and there's Death Eater cloaks and masks," Potter pointed to a series of ornamented silver masks, "over there you can see replicas of his Horcruxes, and that wand over there belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange, Hermione used it by the end of the war, you know. So, well, it's stuff from the war." After rattling off his little lecture, Potter moved away, clearly not interested. 

Voldemort stood still, staring at the wand, almost itching to touch it. _It had been his most prized belonging for so long, his steady companion since he was eleven, serving him so well._

Backing off before he got too tempted, he vowed to get hold of it again as soon he had been installed to power. The Silver Lime wand he had now was very useful and strong, but he felt almost maudlin thinking about his old Yew wand.

Minerva McGonagall sidled up to him, giving him an amused smile. "Browsing? Would you like to touch it?"

He blinked at her in surprise. "Err, no, well… Yes. But not now," he said, trying to cover up his flustered state.

She shrugged, pulling her tartan silk shawl around her bony shoulders. "You know, at this celebration, we do a poetic enactment of the war every year to remind ourselves of the horror we experienced. One person needs to cast the Dark Mark at the beginning. If you'd like, you could do it, with his wand. There's a certain symbolic ring to that, don't you think?" The old witch peered at him over her glasses, and he swallowed.

 _Symbolic indeed_. For a moment, he was sorely tempted, to grab his wand, swing his arm in a wide arch, crying out " _Morsmordre_!" for everyone to hear, bringing the fear of Lord Voldemort into their hearts and mind again, filling the Great Hall with darkness and the green flicker from his sigil. To use his old wand, feeling the warm wood pulsing gently in his fingertips, and what better way to reacquaint himself with it than with his own spell for the Dark Mark?

He felt his hunger grow, he just _wanted_ it so much, but no. It would be suicide, bringing the rumour mill up to full speed. He'd have to decline.

Shaking his head ruefully at McGonagall, he said calmly: "Better someone else than me. The gossip would be endless, you know. Besides, I don't know the spell." The mix of truth and lies was seamless, and he met the eyes of the stern witch head on.

After a while, her mouth quirked, and she patted his arm. "You're a good lad, I think, no matter what Albus says." Giving him a sharp glance, she continued: "And now, I hear you're rooting for being our next Minister. People are speaking warmly of you, even though you came out of nowhere just a few months ago."

He nodded, trying to look self-conscious and embarrassed. "I try to do my best until the election. Kingsley has been an enormous support, and I really enjoy the research in my Department too."

"Oh, well, if you win, just keep your nose away from the educational system. We do very well on our own, without interfering Ministers," she admonished, giving him a sly wink as she moved away.

Xxxx

Strolling about with his witch on his arm, aiming to charm and impress people, he enjoyed himself, realizing that winning an election was a result of securing his grasp, conversation by conversation, person by person. Lucius Malfoy flitted around in the distance, still working, still talking to the right people on behalf of him, sometimes making introductions to important people.

A loud boom interrupted him in the middle of a surprisingly interesting chat with Robert Fawley, an owner of a big, prestigious potioneering firm, specializing in sedatives and restorative potions. Feeling excited, he thought they might be able to brew some of the more experimentative potions he wanted to create and…

Turning around, he saw a shadowed, dark-cloaked figure shooting the Dark Mark out of his wand. Darkness fell over the Great Hall, as the candles died and the bespelled ceiling became murky. The green, flickering light cast by his Mark gave a comforting hue to the Hall, though he saw the people around him shudder. A single lantern shot a beam of light to the centre of the floor, much like a spotlight, as more figures emerged from the darkness.

As everyone stared at the enactment of the major happenings in the war, he allowed himself a scowl under the cover of the blackness surrounding them. To see his downfall portrayed like this, to see people acting out his own craziness as the snake-faced abomination of himself was more than disturbing. The Glamour worn by the actor pretending to be _him_ was downright distasteful. _Ugly, scary and to be frank, depicting what had to be a sorry ruin of a wizard. Had he really let himself fall that far_?

The play started at his resurrection in the Little Hangleton graveyard, and would present the events of the war until his death at the Battle of Hogwarts. Hermione and Harry Potter were mumbling behind him, and somehow, he was pleased that the two of them didn't join in to play themselves. The actual main cast from the war was present, exempting Ronald Weasley, but none of them participated in the play. A small, twisted smile slipped by his lips, and a few steps away, he saw the young Draco Malfoy staring at him - again. Voldemort sighed, and scratched his neck. _Lucius Malfoy would probably be sad, maybe even heartbroken in the near future, but there was nothing to it._

The young Malfoy heir slipped away, and instinct told him he should follow.

"Excuse me," he muttered to Hermione and Potter, as he shuffled past them. The play would seem to last for quite some time, as they had just reached Albus Dumbledore's death. It felt very satisfying seeing a semblance of the old coot take a tumble over the parapet, and he wondered if it would be possible to see someone's actual memories of the event. _It would be lovely indeed_.

Disillusioning himself, he followed Malfoy out into the Entrance Hall. The hall felt nice and cool after the heat of the throng in the Great Hall, and he Silenced his steps as he moved closer to Malfoy. The young man had ambled over to a bored-looking witch, yawning slightly as she lounged against the stone wall.

"Sorry about that," she said, as she yawned again.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, and whispered: "Get your quill ready, I haven't much time."

The witch fumbled with her purse, producing an acid-green Quick-Quotes Quill and a scroll of parchment. Muttering to her quill, he clearly heard her say: " _Modus Anonymous._ "

Frowning, he saw the quill give a small rattle, before it sprang up, standing ready.

"Spill it, whatever it is," the witch said disgruntled.

"Tom Riddle was scowling the entire time as he watched the enactment," Draco Malfoy began.

"It looked like he felt _personally_ affronted by the play…"

Voldemort had heard enough. It was clear, Draco Malfoy was the anonymous source. _But how? Voldemort had personally wiped out his memories of the similarities Malfoy had noticed between Lord Voldemort and Tom Riddle. His Memory Charms weren't something that usually failed. This had to be caused by something else…_

Xxxx

Upon re-entering the Great Hall, the play was almost finished. Stone-faced, with his hand gripping Hermione's, he saw the actor playing himself 'die' on the floor, felled by the pretend Potter. Like everyone else, he applauded, even forcing a small smile on his face, though the sight was one bitter pill to watch. An icy chill crept down his spine, and for a moment, the old fear from his childhood of dying, of being forgotten - _of being abandoned, of being insignificant, leaving no mark on the world before he was lost in the eternal darkness of death -_ reared its ugly head, making him feel the urge to show the world that he was a force to be reckoned with, and that no one would be allowed to _not_ notice him. 

A deep shudder went through him. _He was supposed to live forever. Even the death of an inferior version of himself should never have occurred. It was wrong, he was eternal. And the power he was about to grab, would help him to immortality, with a much better solution than the Horcruxes. Everyone would bow to him._

Then Potter stepped out on the floor - the real Potter, that was - and the cheering became wild.

Potter cleared his throat nervously, and cast a Sonorous to his throat. "Friends, fellow Order members, everyone who suffered through the war," he began. "We are gathered here today to commemorate those who we lost in the war, and to rejoice in our victory. The most important part isn't the fact that we won, but the fact that we saved our society and freedom. We saved love. This year has given me another lesson. A lesson of hope, and the possibilities of forgiveness. You are all aware of the arrival of Tom Riddle, Voldemort's son, to England. Come here, Tom," Potter beckoned to him, and he slowly stepped out into the limelight, standing beside Potter.

 _He felt almost nervous, having no idea what Potter was about to do. Standing here, in the place of the death of his former self, with his nemesis, felt more than odd_.

Potter grasped his shoulder, and said: "Tom has proven himself as a good friend, a very capable wizard and an honest man I trust through and through. To me, this is the final proof that the Pure-blood theory of Voldemort was wrong. Because, if bloodlines were _that_ important in determining people's worth and their personalities, surely Tom would be evil, dark and manipulative. I tell you, he's _not_. Some people try to spread rumours about him, but they are dead wrong. Don't listen to them. Show the spirit we learned from the war, and look past the acts of his father. Tom is not like _him_."

The rush of his blood was almost audible to his ears, and he fought the urge to grin. _It couldn't have been better_. 

Thanks to Potter's bleeding heart, he had just gotten a stellar review of his character. This announcement was worth all the gold in Malfoy's vaults, and it was the perfect opportunity to execute his plan for the evening. Turning to Potter, he embraced him, giving him a rough pat on his back, like he was touched by his words.

Freeing himself again, hiding his relief for escaping the embrace, he turned to the audience, making a show of swallowing. With a silent Sonorous, his voice was magnified across the Hall too. Schooling his face into an open, honest expression, hiding his deep disgust for what he was about to say, he said slowly, keeping his voice deep and melodious:

"Harry, thanks for the kind words. It's true, I'm not like my father. Such accusations are hurtful, not only to me, but the woman I love too. Harry's right, love is the most important thing."

The gasp he had expected went through the audience, and he could see Hermione biting her lip. Feeling butterflies and a sort of queasy terror roiling in his stomach, he moved towards her. She took an uncertain step forward too, meeting him. He kissed her cheek, before he steeled himself, and went down on one knee. Her eyes widened, and a flush rose in her cheeks.

_He'd never thought he'd do anything as asinine as this in his whole life, but he consoled his wounded pride by telling himself it was a great public display. He would benefit from this, no matter the loss of his dignity._

"Love," he whispered, voice still audible through the Hall, "Hermione, darling, will you marry me? Do you trust me, love?"

She looked down at him with an inscrutable expression, and for a moment, he feared he had overdone it. She wasn't one for public displays, and here he went, proposing to her in front of an audience of hundreds, at the biggest public event for anyone who was anybody in wizarding Britain. _What if she refused him_?

Then she relented, giving him a soft smile. "Yes," she whispered, and he rose, clutching her to him, bending down to kiss her soundly. _This, this will be on the front page tomorrow and for weeks to come,_ he thought smugly, pressing the soft curves of his witch into his body.

Through the pounding of his heart, and the small mewl she made as his tongue snaked its way into her mouth, he almost didn't hear the roar of the audience. _A stellar performance_ , he congratulated himself with. _The Golden Girl belonged to him, and everyone knew it. The Boy Wonder, Potter, had just declared him as a good guy in public. The Wizarding World was officially his for the taking._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the best description of this chapter I can manage is "manipulative fluff," lol.


	21. Power for the Taking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finishing his speech, he saw the glowing, happy faces, and he couldn't help grinning. They were so fucked, and they had no idea. These people had unknowingly helped Lord Voldemort to power, and in the years to come, the would be, suffice to say, surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort also needs to vent a little. Ouch.

_He was on a roll_. The day after the Victory Celebration, he announced his candidature in public, to great acclaim. Now, it was all about giving talks and visiting St. Mungo's, wizarding towns and villages with the press following him around. Basically, he was shaking hands with witches and wizards, giving them his best, dazzling smiles, petting children on the head, saying over and over again: "Please, call me Tom, just Tom," pretending to listen to their complaints, worries and opinions. _Like he ever was going to do anything about it._

 _Thank Merlin for Apparition, or else he'd have been swamped down by travelling._ The current Heads of Department were also arranging discrete, private meetings with him, negotiating their role after the election. He enjoyed wrangling with them, they were scrambling for position, and he was able to make quite a few useful deals to secure his own position.

Though, he remembered with a scowl, Lucius and Selwyn were now trying to assert their position. _Oh, they were still so diffident, so obedient, but he could see it plain as the day on their faces, without resorting to Legilimency_. The two of them held expectations of exaltation, of high positions and power under his rule, and the excitement for revels to come, a new reign of bloodlust and torture. It was apparent in their postures, in the way they talked, and in the coiled desire boiling just under the surface. Huffing, he reminded himself to be patient. _Just a little longer_ …

Hermione had moved in with him at 12 Grimmauld Place, leaving her apartment to the Granger-Muggles. Tonight, he had promised her to go to dinner with her parents. In a Muggle restaurant, no less, wearing Muggle clothing. _Oh well, the pictures in the Prophet would prove him to be more Muggle-friendly than he'd ever dreamt of in his worst nightmares_. He had to survive entertaining the Muggles, playing nice Tom Riddle at his best for his goddamn future inlaws, of all things. Sighing, he tried to comfort himself by the thought that he, at least, had chosen a good restaurant. _The food would be excellent, if not the company._

Buttoning up the black slacks he had Transfigured into a nice fifties style, he perused himself in the mirror. He had to admit, the trousers presented a nice view of his arse, and the Muggle-style shirt was more snug than its wizarding equivalents. Flexing his muscles a little, he nodded with satisfaction. _He looked good as usual, even in Muggle clothing_. Shrugging a black jacket across his shoulders, he supposed he would fit right in. _No one would suspect him to be a wizard. All they would see, was a man looking like a movie star from the fifties_. Voldemort gave himself a dazzling smile in the mirror to complete the look.

His witch came out of the bathroom, wearing a flowing, blue summer dress, and he smiled at her. "Aren't we the very epitome of Muggles?" he joked, pulling her into him in front of the mirror.

She laughed, smiling up at him, and said huskily: "You look good enough in Muggle clothes to start a new fashion trend for wizards. Maybe after seeing you like this, they'll start selling Muggle clothing at Twilfitts and Tatters?"

He almost grimaced, but murmured to her: "I hope not. I rather like the robes, they are more comfortable than a jacket."

Lifting up the hem of her dress, he admired the sight in the mirror as he stroked her body. Her smooth legs, that enticing curve by her hip, black stockings held up by the garter belt…

"Tom!" she said, giving him a light slap over his hands. "We'll be too late, my parents are waiting for us!"

Xxxx

The food really was excellent, and he couldn’t help smiling, remembering the host’s confusion as he found out that the restaurant was overbooked - and that the reservation of one Tom Riddle with company was to be prioritized above anyone else. 

Hermione had been busy greeting her parents, and the little Imperius Curse he had placed on the host went without her notice. _He hadn’t bothered with booking in advance. Why would he? He’d get in, wherever he wanted in, even though it was a three-star restaurant._

“This is so lovely,” Mrs. Granger sighed, closing her eyes in bliss as she took a bite from the delicate turbot with a zesty lemon froth.

“Absolutely, a delicious meal,” Mr. Granger agreed, “and such excellent choice of wines.” 

He nodded pleasantly. “It was worth the trip to Bray, wasn’t it?” 

The view of the river was very charming, and he was pleased the Grangers had opted to go by car. _Or else he’d have to Apparate one of them. He almost shuddered by the thought of Lord Voldemort transporting Muggles to a meal._

“Indeed,” they chorused, smiling happily. 

“So Tom, you’re already running for Minister, aren’t you? How old are you, if I may ask?” His soon-to-be father in law looked at him with a searching glance. _Actually, the man was studying his teeth, wasn’t he? As if Lord Voldemort was some sort of horse!_

His lips thinning with irritation, he said calmly: “I’m 29.” 

Hermione interrupted: “Tom is young, considering he’s running, but he is actually in the lead. All the polls show the same result. That’s just because he’s … marvellously clever.” The big smile she gave him soothed his vexation, and he squeezed her hand underneath the table. 

“And you’re already getting married,” her mother said, almost tearing up. “I mean, I’m so happy we’re here, to witness this. You don’t know how much this means for us, Tom.” 

“That’s the honest truth!” Mr. Granger chimed in, looking like he was going to cry too. “Our little daughter, getting married…” 

His smile becoming more stiff by the minute, he just nodded, inclining his head, hiding his mouth by sipping the white wine in his glass. _Tears, happiness, family love - he couldn’t take it. It was smothering, overwhelming, and he’d never ever experienced anything like it. It was as if he couldn’t breathe. Like he was panicking._

“Excuse me,” he said politely, rising from his chair to go to the gents, forcing himself to walk at a leisurely pace, even though he felt like running. 

Well inside, he locked himself in a stall, taking deep breaths. _This was much worse than he had expected. It was awful, and he needed to vent… but how? It wasn’t as if he could kill or torture someone in the loo._

Gritting his teeth, he realized he’d have to wait. _He had to be patient, on his best behaviour, restraining his temper. Sweet Merlin, this was a daunting task, because he couldn’t just run away. He’d have to endure._

Steeling himself, Lord Voldemort felt as if he went to his doom upon returning to the table. 

Xxxx

Lucius Malfoy had - _after attempting to protest_ \- given up the names of his son's favourite haunts. All were rather unsavoury places, selling much more than merely beer and Firewhisky.

Slouching as he went, Glamoured like a thin, tall man with long, black hair, he entered pub after pub, looking for young Draco. When he arrived at the Jinxed Potioneer, the pub being a cover for its real business of selling recreational potions, there was a commotion at the door.

A gruff voice shouted from inside: "Merlin, you have to understand, we don't want the likes of you here! You're ruining the business, lightening up the whole house with your silly rainbow colours! Go away, or I'll hex you to Camelot and back, you friggin' moron!"

A man tumbled out from the door, lifting his fist against the pub, shouting: "Fuck you, Samador! I'll jinx your fucking business so hard, no one will ever dare to enter!"

Voldemort saw with amusement that this was one of the men Hermione and he had infected with the Sparklosanct Disease. The man was indeed flashing rainbow-coloured lights from every visible piece of skin, though he had tried to mute it by wearing gloves, scarves and a deep hood. Still, merry rays of yellow, blue, pink and green lit up the dark street.

The man went grumbling on his way, disappearing into an alley, and suddenly, Voldemort felt the need. _The revenge was amusing, but was it enough? No, never enough, for having overpowered and humiliated Lord Voldemort. He needed more._

Making a quick decision, he veered off his path, entering the alley behind the sparkly guy. Disillusioning himself, feeling the cold slither over his body as the Charm took hold, he stalked closer to the man. Smiling to himself, he thought: _There was no need to overdo it. No talking, no revelations, just a quick and simple…_

 _"Avada Kedavra_!" The green light filled the alley for a moment, melding into the last sparkles from the man, and there was a muffled thump as the man hit the ground.

Pointing his wand, he Transfigured the corpse into a pebble, leaving it there.

Reentering the main street, he let the Disillusionment go, sauntering over to the Jinxed Potioneer. _Gods, this felt good. Just … killing someone, on a whim almost, and feeling that rush of darkness scour through his body_. Sighing contentedly, he saw his quarry for the evening sitting in a corner, talking to an old man. _Wasn't it…? Yes, it was, it was that seedy old Order member, Mundungus Fletcher_!

As he watched the two of them, money and a set of small vials changed hands. Almost rolling his eyes, he scoffed at himself. _He should have known. Fletcher was a dealer, and Malfoy was buying supplies_. He had entered Malfoy's mind before, and the man had at some point been a decent Occlumens. In all probability, he had dabbled in Legilimency too. It would be no wonder if Malfoy had taken a look at the Azkaban event in the mind of the old man, and that could have triggered new theories and suspicions, sidestepping his Obliviate.

Ordering a beer, he pretended to sip at the dirty glass while the two of them concluded their business. Then Malfoy was on his way, and silently, he followed the tall blonde outside. Walking up to the young man, grabbing his arm roughly, he took him into a Side-along-Apparition before landing in a large forest outside Nottingham.

"What the fuck…!" Malfoy sputtered, straightening himself as he backed a few steps away from Voldemort.

"Hello, Draco," he said, cocking his head with a small smile, rescinding his Glamour.

"You! What the hell, aren't you supposed to be out and about on your campaign or something?" Those ice-blue were wide open, and Voldemort saw a slither of fear creep over the pointed face.

"Can't do it twenty-four-seven, you know," he drawled. "I need some amusements too. So, why are you spreading rumours, Draco?"

"I'm not." The young man licked his lip nervously.

"Come on," Voldemort scoffed. "Don't lie to me!"

"Alright, I did it. I need money," the young man said, scratching his neck nervously.

Voldemort laughed out loud, incredulously. "As if..? What did you do, squander the Malfoy fortune on potions?"

"No, but you see, my father… He's restricted my access to the vault. I don't know why, he's never done that before, says he'll need to keep me in line for some reason."

Voldemort shrugged. "Smart move. He said he'd clean you up. Your move, however, was quite possibly the dumbest thing you could do."

Lunging forward, gripping the chin of Malfoy, he entered his mind. _Yes, among a haze of smoke, alcohol and potion-induced illusions, he found it. Malfoy had indeed monetary problems and a serious addiction to certain potions, and due to accidental curiosity, he had looked at his dealer Mundungus Fletcher's memory from the Azkaban debacle, noting that Tom Riddle's wand movements were identical to those of the late Lord Voldemort. Malfoy had gotten even more suspicious when he was unable to say 'Tom Riddle' and 'Lord Voldemort' in the same sentence, taking this as proof that his mind had been tampered with._

"Draco, Draco, Draco," he said, shaking his head. "You could have made yourself useful instead, you know. This is counterproductive, and I won't have you threatening my position. I gave you one chance earlier, but this is it. I hope you've enjoyed your life."

"No, wait, please…!" the expression on Malfoy's face was panicky, terrified, and Voldemort couldn't help smiling. _Such fear, it felt so very good. Such fear, from someone who knew who he was, and what he was truly capable of_.

Grinning at Malfoy, he said: "Your grandfather was a useful man, and your father isn't half bad either. You can thank them, because I’ll make this short and sweet."

Standing back, he let the quick, heady rush of death flow through him, the green flash of ecstasy thunder out of his wand, and with that brief, sharp shot of exquisite bliss, the Malfoy Heir was nothing more than a crumpled heap on the ground.

Voldemort whistled as he Transfigured Malfoy into a white ferret, slashing the stomach open to attract scavengers. Sure enough, a crow hopped down to the ground, peering at Voldemort, before hopping closer.

"Enjoy," Voldemort said, nodding at the crow. "Dinner is on me."

Xxxx

The election was just a day away, when he met Lucius Malfoy in a corridor at the Ministry.

Nodding at him, he moved to pass him, when Malfoy actually dared to disobey him by approaching him, stopping him in the middle of the corridor for all to see.

"Please, Mr. Riddle," he said in a low voice, "I wondered if you had heard any news about my son. He's gone missing."

Voldemort arched his eyebrow, and brought one hand up to tap his lips. "You son…" he said pensively. "No, I can't say I've seen young Mr. Malfoy for some time. When did you say he disappeared?"

"We're not exactly sure," the elder Malfoy admitted with a nervous grimace, "because we thought he was on a binge again. Astoria says she last saw him a week ago."

"Hmm, not a very devoted wife, is she?" Voldemort said flippantly, nodding to Malfoy to signal the end of this conversation, and tried to move past him.

Shockingly, Malfoy moved to block him, again. Voldemort frowned at him, showing his displeasure by trying to brush past him, but his minion wouldn't budge.

"Please, if you've heard anything, if you **know** anything, you would tell me …?" The words ‘ _my Lord’_ weren't audible, but for Voldemort, they were as clear as day.

He plastered a sympathetic look on his face, mindful of the people looking at them, and replied: "Please, Mr. Malfoy, if I had any inkling as to where your son might be, I would have told you straight away. As it is, I have no idea, trust me in this. Have you considered putting the case to the Aurors? Now, if you will excuse me, I need to move on …"

He nodded to Malfoy in passing, seeing the man's shoulders slump in defeat. _Oh well, it didn't matter if the man believed him or not. Soon, it wouldn't matter at all._

Xxxx

After dinner, Ginny Weasley pulled Hermione into the drawing room, shutting out the two wizards. Potter shrugged, and said: "Care to join me for a game of chess?"

"Sure," Voldemort replied, while privately wondering why a shitty player like Potter would want to expose his shortcomings like that.

They sat down, the white chessmen groaning at the sight of Potter, while the black chessmen waved happily at himself. _He was no more than barely an adequate player, but still, he was far better than Potter_ , he thought with a certain amount of satisfaction. Ronald Weasley, however, had thumped him in chess quite a few times during his early visits, being a much better player than himself.

After a few moves, it already looked like Potter would lose. Then the young man straightened himself. Clearing his throat nervously, he bored those big, green eyes into Voldemort's face.

"Erm, I saw you with Malfoy today. I had no idea the two of you were so friendly." His glare was accusing.

Voldemort pursed his lips, answering slowly after his knight hit Potter's bishop over the head. The bishop groaned, before limping off the table. "Not really. He's been my contact with Delphini, you know…"

Potter interrupted: "You did look awfully close today. He looked like he begged you for help, didn't he? Asking you about Draco? It was almost like he thought you knew something."

Voldemort almost rolled his eyes. _Malfoy complaining about his son had been decidedly risky. So many people might have overheard them. In all likelihood, Malfoy would need a punishment for being so careless_.

"We're not close. He wondered if I had seen him."

"Seen him?" Potter looked bewildered. "Do you know Draco, then? I thought you had barely met him."

"That's true. I don't know him at all, I only met him that one time. To be frank, I just think he was desperate," Voldemort said shortly, eyes on the board.

Xxxx

The results from the election were coming in, and the gathering he held at the rather posh restaurant in Diagon Alley, the Famished Swan, was filled to the brim with cheering, happy people. Some were genuine supporters of his, like his employees from the Department of Mysteries, the Weasleys (exempting that odd twin, George), Potter, Shacklebolt and his Wizengamot faction, all of them now wholehearted supporters of his cause, plus other people from the Order of the Phoenix, the Cabinet of Department Heads and, of course, Hermione. Others were joining the band wagon late, because he had been the favourite in all polls, having no real opposition, Andromeda Tonks even throwing in the towel two days before the election, declaring her support for him. 

He was grinning, genuinely happy, seeing as everyone who mattered wanted to be there, the night Tom Riddle became Minister for Magic. _The night Lord Voldemort became Minister for Magic_.

The finger food was, of course, delicious, the wines and the spirits too, and the tapered candles in magical chandeliers created a soft light over the congregation.

As the results came in, from the farmsteads and smaller villages like Western Wychern, Godrics Hollow, Appleby, Tinworth and Ottery St. Catchpole, he held a solid lead, and people cheered, some even casting Cheering Charms to keep it up. The excitement grew, as the larger towns like Hogsmeade, Holyhead and Chudleigh finished, and still he held the top position. When the results finally came in from London, it was decisive, and the roar from the audience was going through the roof.

 _He had made it. He was Minister for Magic, mere months after entering his new timeline. Wizarding Britain would never be the same_.

Kissing his witch hard, he shook hands with what felt like a myriad of people, before getting ready for his speech, the media setting up their cameras and quills, the wireless getting ready to broadcast directly.

Hermione patted his robes, making sure that the black silk was correctly layered, before giving him a big smile. Taking a deep breath, he entered the raised dais to hold his victory speech, peppered with lies and half-truths, though interspersed with nuggets of his true intentions.

"Thank you, my friends, and everyone who voted for me. I'm immensely honoured to have your trust. I wanted to be Minister for Magic to do some good for our society, and one of my driving forces has been to make it up to you, each and everyone who lost someone or something during the war my father started. I want a better society for each and every one of us, no matter if we are Pure-bloods, Half-bloods, Muggleborns or Beings."

At that, his witch teared up, blowing him a kiss, and he waved at her, before continuing: "We need to build a strong, magical society, based on knowledge, research and sound principles for governing. Nepotism, favouritism and corruption will have no place in my administration, because I want us all to strive for better results. Those who will give what it takes to build a better Britain will be able to do so, while I will stop anyone who thinks otherwise. We will strive to make a better world for us, and repair the damage that has been done in the years past!” 

The roar from the crowd was immensely satisfying, and he felt so high, like he was about to take flight, the power rush of winning, taking, controlling them all surged through him. 

Grinning widely, he continued: “To do that, we need knowledge. I will open up the Department of Mysteries, giving everyone the chance to learn about the exciting research we've been doing there, so that each and everyone of you can advance your magical knowledge. Magic will not be shrouded in secrecy, but become our fountain of knowledge, where we learn, work, live and breathe."

Finishing his speech, he saw the glowing, happy faces of his followers, and he couldn't help grinning. _They were so fucked, and they had no idea. These people had unknowingly helped Lord Voldemort to power, and in the years to come, they would be, suffice to say, surprised._

Lucius Malfoy and Jeanette Selwyn were standing at the back, their pupils dilated with victory and joy. _They would pounce on him tomorrow to get what they thought were their dues for services rendered, if not tonight_. Curling his mouth in a quick expression of distaste, he noted that Malfoy conveniently enough seemed to have forgotten all about his son, at least for tonight. Shaking his head slightly, he wondered how come the both of them had forgotten all their Slytherin cunning. _Yes, they had helped him, but they should also realize, they were now a liability to him, being the only two living people in the world knowing his identity. Besides, no one should make demands of Lord Voldemort. He would rectify their misgivings. Severely._

Xxxx

Hours later, after the victory celebration, he was standing in his bedroom, looking down at the bushy head of his little witch. Her hair had escaped the pins holding it up, and his hands buried in her hair didn't help much either. _She looked so good at his feet, sucking off her Minister. Merlin, he enjoyed it, the thought of all the formal power he now held. It gave him such a rush. Him, Slytherin's Heir, the most powerful wizard in Britain, ruling the Ministry, soon to rule the world, and ruling the heart and body of his pretty, little witch. He had her. He owned her. The Golden Girl now firmly belonged to Lord Voldemort_.

With her hot, wet mouth wrapped around his cock, her tongue sliding around the shaft, licking the sensitive head, Voldemort wanted nothing more than to show his cock down her throat, burying himself in her, making her choke on his release. Gripping her head a little harder, he began to thrust lightly into her mouth, testing her.

She looked up at him, and the trusting innocence in her eyes made him pulse and throb. _Innocent? Oh, no, she was not_ , he remembered, as the glint in her eyes became seductively wicked.

Hollowing her cheeks, she moaned wantonly, licking her lips, and she pushed one hand down to her naked crotch, fingering herself as she sucked him. He grunted, as she bobbed her head, taking him deeper, and he followed her lead, thrusting harder, hitting the roof at the back of her mouth.

Still looking up at him, she tipped her head slightly backwards, letting him slide into her throat. His cock jerked, making her gag slightly, and the constriction of her throat made him give off a ragged gasp.

She had one hand resting on his thigh, and she brought it quickly up to grasp his cock, pushing him back slightly, before sliding him slowly into her throat again.

He bit his teeth, feeling all those pulses of heat collect into an intense pulsing point somewhere deep in his balls, and then her hand drew back to fondle those very bits. Groaning deeply, his hips surged forward, but this time, she was ready for him, taking him deeper.

Her small, soft hand caressed and tickled his sack, cupping him, stroking, making goosebumps appear as his balls lifted, hardened, readying to shoot. Now firmly lodged in her throat, he thrust into her, the blaze igniting in his cock, and he was grunting: "Hermione, oh, Hermione, you feel so good, I'm going to come down your throat, take it, take it all, little witch, fucking your mouth like this…"

The blindingly white sheet of light rose behind his eyes, his muscles tensed, and he held on to her head like a drowning man, hunching over as he rode her mouth. And then he was there, shooting out like a starburst, trembling as he pumped into her throat, eyes widening as she swallowed around him, intensifying his pleasure.

Gasping, he retreated from her mouth, a trickle of his seed leaving her mouth, and he stumbled back to sit on the bed, feeling dizzy with the fading buzz in his veins. She grinned at him, still on her knees, before crawling after him on all four.

"What about **my** pleasure, Minister?" she purred, looking up at him from underneath her lashes. His heart almost stopped in his throat, as a feeling he had no idea what to make of arose inside. _He wanted to make her happy, pleased, aroused and satisfied, all at the same time._

Grinning weakly at her, as he caught his breath, he patted the bed beside him. Grandly, he said: "You've more than pleased the Minister, little minx. Now come and get your reward."

She climbed up to sit beside him, and he pulled her up into his lap. Looking deep into her eyes, those big, chocolate eyes, his hands rested on her hip as he leaned in to snog her senseless, tasting his own, bitter release on her tongue. Her mouth opened for him, letting him in, and her tongue danced around his, entwining them. Massaging one breast with his left hand, he twirled the nipple between his fingers, and sent his other hand down to the apex of her thighs. Rubbing her wet slit, she squirmed in his lap, wriggling, and he stroked her, dipping one finger inside, sliding out to coat her clit in the glistening strands of her own wetness.

"Tom," she gasped, before remembering their little game, and she moaned: "Minister! Thank you for fingering me, sir!"

"You're more than welcome," he rumbled, feeling his cock miraculously twitch to life, rising up and swelling between them. Grabbing her, he lifted her up by the hips, slamming her down on his cock with a groan.

Her eyes flew wide open, and she moaned: "Gods, Tom, are you ready again? You're insatiable, that's what you are!"

Panting as he pushed into her wet, swollen sex, she closed her eyes, her head lolling back. He set a fast pace, bouncing her on his cock, one finger frigging her clit. She clenched methodically around him, before her eyes opened into a wild-eyed look, and she screamed: "Tooom! Good Lord, oooh!"

The pulsing and trembling of her tight cunt around him made him lose it again, and he came with a stifled groan inside her. Seconds ticked by as they just sat there, still locked together by their bodies.

Voldemort felt as if he should say something. _It would be the right thing to do after this, right?_ She had, all by herself, played right into his power fantasy by submitting to him like that. And it was good. So good, too good, and it had been so for a long time now. He still couldn't muster any interest in fucking other witches. She seemed to be the only one he wanted for the time being. _He had to say something, if for no other reason than to keep her reasonably happy. Merlin help him, he **wanted** her to be happy. _

Leaning his head on her brow, he whispered stiffly: "Love you." The words still burned like bile on his tongue, but the reward was immediate. She swallowed a sob, kissing him fiercely back, before she replied: "I love you too, Tom, I love you too."

Xxxx

Later, she was curled up in his arms in his great bed, the silk sheets nestled around them.

Sleepily, she murmured: "I wanted to be Minister for Magic too, you know."

He shrugged lazily: "Who says you can't be?" _When he took Europe, he'd need an able, trusted Minister in Britain. Heading the Magical European Union would be no trifling matter, and someone had to run Britain. She would do just fine_.

She laughed. "What are you going to do, then?"

Petting her hair, he replied: "Can't be Minister all my life. It's only fair you get a go too, isn't it?"

She burrowed her surprisingly cold nose into his shoulder with a contented laugh. "Maybe. First, I need to learn how to raise a child, apparently."

"And being the Minister's wife," he reminded her, smiling into her hair.

"About that, " she said nervously. "I don't really know what's expected of me in that position. I've read some books, and I can't really see myself as..."

Voldemort shrugged, interrupting her. "Neither do I. We'll find out."

"The wedding…" she said, voice trailing off, uncertainly.

"What about it?"

"When, I mean, and how? Now, when you're Minister, do people expect this to be a grand, official affair, or..."

Taking a quick peek into her mind, he saw a conversation with Ginny. Dresses. Invitations, guests, friends and family intermingling. A rather small affair. _Why not? It would save him from arranging matters._ He stretched, feeling the afterglow still satiating his body.

"I'm fine with that," he replied, mind preoccupied with the possibility of tying himself even closer to Potter.

"Fine with what?" she was surprised, and he belatedly realized she might think him to be snooping. _Well, there was nothing that a bit of charm and daring to convince his witch_.

Grinning mischievously at her, he said: "The double wedding you are thinking about, of course," hearing a small gasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... Draco met his demise. I hope you're not too angry with Tom. ;-) 
> 
> I have to say, Lord Voldemort having a panic attack in the loo was an idea that fell into my head almost two seconds before I pressed the button to publish. It's a *very* last minute addition. Poor man, facing one's emotional inlaws was apparently too rough on his not-so-tender sensibilities, lol.
> 
> The restaurant is the three-star Waterside Inn in Bray, Berkshire. I have no idea if they had turbot on the menu in 2000, but they do now (no, I haven't been there, but the internet says so). ;-)


	22. Wand Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you really sure about this?" Gawain Robards and his deputy Arthur Weasley chorused, skepticism and confusion dripping from their voices.
> 
> "Yes!" he almost barked. Really, wasn't the point of being in charge not having everyone second-guessing his decisions? Seething on the inside, he deliberately dampened his anger. Too soon, much too soon, he thought, to show my real temper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far, everything has worked out for Tom. Though, there might be bumps in the road ahead... *grins*

"Are you going to marry her, and _then_ I'm going to live with you?" Delphini's eyebrows were climbing to her hairline, silvery blonde hair brushed, not a hair out of place, big brown eyes blinking at him. 

Voldemort stared at his little daughter standing in front of him, and he nodded. Leaning back into the armchair, he looked over to his witch, sitting in the chair beside him in the Grimmauld library. The tall windows were thrown open, and the warm morning sun shone into the room, dust motes dancing over the herringbone parquet. Delphini's play wand lay forgotten on the floor, and the child looked wide-eyed from him to Hermione.

Hermione smiled at her, and said softly: "We'll take care of you, and you can be with your brother all the time. And we're going to have a baby, though it's going to be a long time before it's born. It'll be like growing up with a sibling for you. Would you like that, Delphini?"

The child nibbled on her lip, and he could see she was thinking hard. Looking like she had reached a decision, she said: "And I can do magic all the time, and you will teach me?"

He nodded, seeing Hermione doing the same thing. Then Delphini set her eyes into him, and she said with a quiet, almost grown-up intensity: "Teach me _everything_?"

Voldemort realized this question was for him. His daughter had clearly caught on more from seeing him treating the Grangers than he had realized. Solemnly, he replied: "Yes, but in due time, Delphini."

The little girl squealed, her face blooming into a big smile at the prospect of learning dangerous magic. "Yes!"

She jumped up in his lap, hugging him, reaching her arm out to Hermione, and his witch leaned in to the girl. Burrowing her face into Hermione's shoulder, his child made a small, happy purr of satisfaction. As Hermione retreated to her own chair, his daughter turned around in his lap, saying in a serious tone: "I like her."

He laughed slightly, smiling at Hermione over Delphini's head. "So do I," he murmured.

Delphini cocked her head at him. "If I'm living with you, and you're going to have a baby that will be like a brother or sister, then you're going to be like my Dad. Will you be my Dad?"

He swallowed, looking at Delphini, and then at Hermione. "If you want to, you can call me Dad, Delphini. It's ok. I understand that you want a father." He couldn't say no to that. He probably should, due to his reputation, but oddly enough, he found that he wanted to grant her this. _He_ **_was_ ** _the brat's father, and if she wanted to call him Dad, she damned well could, nevermind the wizarding world._

Hermione's eyes softened, and tears sprang into her eyes. She wiped her eyes, sniffling, and said querulously: "I'd love to be like your mother too, Delphini. We'll be just like a little family."

Xxxx

"There you are, my friends!" he said blithely, ushering Selwyn and Malfoy into his office, smiling like they were someone he actually wanted to meet. The office had been hastily redecorated the day after the election, removing all paintings from the room. Officially, the explanation was to make room for more shelves along the walls, as he wanted to have more books on hand. The portraits of former Ministers were now hanging in the antechamber. _Still, no one was the wiser as to how the caretaker had managed to set Dumbledore's portrait on fire in what had to be a freak accident, the caretaker so distressed that the poor man had had to lay down for a while, claiming a pounding headache. Well, the Imperius and an Obliviate could do that to people._

Lucius Malfoy and Jeanette Selwyn strode in, both looking like cats who had got their cream. Malfoy had new, black robes, swirls of silver along the lapels, and Selwyn had on her best, deep blue robes, every inch the prim, Pure-blood grand lady.

He gave them a sardonic smile and a small bow, before he snapped: "Sit!"

To his satisfaction, they immediately plopped down on the chairs in front of his desk. Voldemort sauntered around his desk, leaning against it in front of them, using his height to loom over his minions, before crossing his arms across his chest. _Gods, did these people really believe that Lord Voldemort would share his power? He had never needed anyone or wanted a confidante._ _It was preposterous of them to believe he'd need them now. Before, he had had followers, and look where_ ** _that_** _had landed his snake-faced self. This time around, he didn't need anyone in the know. He would work alone, manipulating others to do his bidding. Only his victims would know that they had the honour of being killed by Lord Voldemort himself._

"Lovely," he purred, not taking his eyes away from them, enjoying the power he held over their fates, relishing the growing swirls of doubt in their eyes.

"You have served me well," he said, giving them a wicked smile. "But all things must come to an end. I cannot have anyone knowing the things you do about me."

Malfoy blanched, the familiar expression of fluttering fear back on his face. "My Lord…" he said weakly, "... are you going to … dispose of us?"

Voldemort gave a genuine bark of laughter, shaking his head. "Lucius, Lucius, Lucius. You are forever jumping to conclusions, aren't you? I'm not the wizard you knew. "

Jeanette Selwyn piped in, her face still hopeful: "You promised we would be rewarded, my Lord. Will you keep your promise?"

"In a way," he said pleasantly, "however, not as you think. The two of you will continue to support the new Minister, being my allies, keeping your positions, supporting my rule wholeheartedly. That's enough of a reward, I should think. However, I need to neutralize you as a liability. You see, the difference between me and the Lord Voldemort you knew, is that I consider my risks and take action. I also keep useful people around, but I need to control their knowledge."

Selwyn's resigned expression told him that she, the former Head of the Obliviators, understood exactly what he was going to do, while Lucius Malfoy just looked confused. Still, the shock on their faces was mildly entertaining as he whipped out his wand, Stunning them both, and then went to work methodically, first on Malfoy, then Selwyn, with a series of layered Obliviates laced with prompts fueled by the Imperius Curse. _It was good curse work, really, he had always loved modifying people’s minds. So useful, so very rewarding work._

Xxxx

A few nights before the wedding, he was once again joining Potter in a hunt for Ron Weasley.

"I feel like I can't give him up, this is the one last chance for him," Potter explained earnestly, the light rain drizzling past them outside the expanded dome of the Impervius Charm.

"You're a good friend, Harry," he said, privately thinking that he'd learned a lot about people-friendliness from Potter, things he had been able to copy for his own use to achieve what he wanted.

"You too, Tom," Potter said softly. "I mean, you're the fucking Minister, and still you make time for this!"

Shrugging, he replied: "I can make the time if I need to. I make the important decisions, other people do the actual work. " Though privately, he knew there was less chance of slipping away unnoticed to take care of his own business than before. It would be difficult to weed out those who deserved his personal attention, like the incident with Draco Malfoy.

"Yeah, about that," Potter said cautiously. "Those … decisions you made for the … libraries, have made some people question your motives."

Voldemort snorted. "I don't see how banning books is helping people and furthering the understanding of magic. Knowledge should be free, and everyone should be able to see for themselves."

"Most people think those books were banned for a reason, Tom. They're dark, some of them _very_ much so, and that knowledge could be dangerous in the wrong hands. You've just made dark magic available for children under the age of Hogwarts, even."

"No," he said stubbornly. "Those who want to know, will always find a way, because they're curious and resourceful - or simply willing to go far to attain information. There are many very useful aspects of dark magic, Harry, and we limit and restrain ourselves if we don't utilize the full range of magic known to us."

Potter peered at him, face closed off, and he muttered: "You sound just like…"

Luckily, Potter didn't get to finish his sentence, a sentence that surely would have sparked trouble, because Voldemort pulled his arm, hissing: "There he is!" pointing through the dirty windows of a bar named _The Knockback Witch_.

Potter took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, before announcing: "I'm going in. Just to talk to him."

"Alright. I stay by the bar, and I've got your back if anything happens."

The din in the bar died down, as everyone in the pub realized that the Minister and the Chosen One had just walked in, being nothing like the usual clientele in such a place. Scruffy wizards and leering hags tried to look seemingly inconspicuous, like they were upstanding citizens and not criminals and potion addicts or dealers in substances, curses or artifacts. 

Potter marched off in the direction of Weasley, while Voldemort sauntered up to the counter.

"A pint," he said politely, keeping his eyes on Potter, and making sure his Shield was up, covering both him, Potter and Weasley.

The bartender stroked his greasy apron nervously, and said: "Minister Riddle, what an _unexpected_ honour…"

"Call me Tom, just Tom," he said, preoccupied, just like he had said countless times during his campaign.

"My pleasure, Tom," a witch by his side purred.

Looking down into a sizable cleavage, he let his smile turn a bit frostier as he accepted his drink. "I don't believe we've met, Madam…?" he said, before resting his eyes on the face of a middle-aged witch.

"Or else you'd have remembered me!" she shouted coarsely, and he rolled his eyes.

"Obviously," he drawled, arching his eyebrow sarcastically. _How he'd love to play out his darker side with people like her, who thought they could make a fool out of Lord Voldemort… She would scream so prettily._ Come to think of it, he could do something, at least in more innocent terms, and he cast silently, only flicking his finger slightly.

There was a brief moment before her expression became confused, and then she grunted: "Ouch!" wriggling her bottom.

"Pardon?" he said politely.

Her expression morphed into one of shock, and she clenched her ample buttocks, before she quickly held a hand over her rump, running off with a surprised gasp.

The crowd wrinkled their noses as a putrid smell lay heavily in her wake, the brown stains at the back of her dress giving tell-tale signs of a night suddenly gone very, very wrong.

"Sorry about that," the bartender said diffidently. His eyes were slightly dazed after the brief, heavy Imperius, and Voldemort smiled at him.

"No offense," he said heartily. "I know it wasn't your fault."

The bartender squirmed a little, a shade of red in his cheeks. Voldemort rather thought the man's choice of hex was childish, and he wondered if Delphini would like to learn how to cast it. It seemed easy enough, so he guessed she'd be able to master it. _Kids thought such things were fun, didn't they?_

Meanwhile, Potter had cornered a reluctant Weasley, and he moved closer, nodding to the bartender.

"I'm marrying your sister in a few days," Potter said with a repressed intensity. "If not for me, you should be there for her, and for your Mum and Dad."

Weasley grimaced, but kept still.

"I always thought we'd stay friends forever, Ron. What's happening to you? Why did all this happen? Are you alright?" Potter was almost pleading now, his glasses askew, and he was standing so close to Weasley that his nose almost touched the taller man's chin.

Voldemort saw something move in Weasley's eyes, like a flicker of sadness, and he pursed his lips. _Not good. It should be any kind of remorse, not now. No reunion, no tearful scenes of forgiveness._

He made a movement, making Weasley catch his eyes, and dove in, lashing about in the cramped ruin of Weasley's mind, effectively stamping out any tender feelings that still resided in him. He saw Potter follow Weasley's eyes towards his, and a small wrinkle became visible on his brow.

Weasley's jaw worked, and then he spat: "Harry, fuck you! How many times have I told you I don't want _anything_ to do with you? Will you stop pestering me and following me around? What will it take for you to leave me alone, huh? Do I need to hurt you?"

Potter retreated a few steps, like he was scared by the ferocity of Weasley's words. Then he said, slowly, heavily: "Sorry, Ron, if you really don't want to see me, I'll keep away. However, if you need me, you’ll always know where to find me. I’ll be there for you, whatever happens."

Turning around, he motioned to Voldemort to follow. The two wizards trotted out from the pub, Voldemort peering at Potter, assessing his mood. _Had Potter understood anything from the exchange between him and Weasley?_ Testing the waters, he said: "It seemed like it wasn't such a good idea for me to come along. He looked like he got angrier by seeing me."

"Maybe," Potter said curtly. "It may have been so."

Xxxx

"Are you really sure about this?" Gawain Robards and his deputy Arthur Weasley chorused, skepticism and confusion dripping from their voices.

"Yes!" he almost barked. _Really, wasn't the point of being in charge not having everyone second-guessing his decisions?_ Seething on the inside, he deliberately dampened his anger. _Too soon, much too soon_ , he thought, _to show my real temper._

"Well," Arthur Weasley said, doubt heavy in his voice, "it'll be incredibly busy for the Obliviators and the employees at the Improper Use of Magic. You might want to employ more people in those offices. Think about all those kids that'll go about doing magic in plain sight, hexing Muggles left and right, it'll be mad, I tell you, when there's no consequences."

Voldemort had just signed the removal of the decree restricting underaged magic, and the Head of the Magical Law Enforcement and his deputy were shocked and bewildered. The removal was a gift, sort of, for Delphini. _Soon, she'd need a real wand to advance her magic._

"It's about time they learn, then!" he snapped, "it's not like they learn from being coddled by the Ministry. People must learn to take responsibility for themselves, taking care to not be discovered."

Weasley opened his mouth again, but Voldemort stalled him by lifting a finger: "Besides, the level of magical knowledge among the students starting Hogwarts at eleven is appalling. The children need to practise more magic at a young age. The removal of the decree will ensure that."

"But the Muggles, the Statue of Secrecy…!" protested Robards, eyes looking a bit wild.

"For fucks sake! It's not like the children are completely insane. Do you think they'll go about torturing Muggles? At the most, they are going to do little pranks!" 

_And so fucking what, if one of the little rascals did do a spot of torture? At least they'd learn how to do it properly by practising!_ Voldemort almost rolled his eyes. 

Robards and Weasley exchanged a look that made his mood sour even further, and then Robards retreated, excusing himself as he left. 

Weasley fidgeted a little, before he said carefully: "Tom, the whole Department reacted to this decision. It's not just us. People think it's a bit rash, and more than a little odd. I guess since you've been raised abroad, not having those restrictions yourself, you don't really understand how this works. Because, you see…"

Voldemort lifted a hand, looking sternly at the middle-aged Weasley. ""Arthur, I appreciate your candidness. But really, this discussion is over. The decree is gone, deal with it."

Weasley sighed. As he turned, he said wearily: "Very well. I'll be seeing you tonight, then."

Voldemort waited until Weasley had closed the doors behind him, ready to blow up something in his office to let out some steam. Then he stopped. _Tonight? He didn't have any plans with Arthur Weasley tonight, did he?_

Xxxx

Groaning, he let himself be Side-Alonged with Bill Weasley. The tall red-head grinned up at Voldemort, as he grabbed his arm. The dislocation was jarring, like it always was when he didn't do the Apparition himself, and he emerged in a brightly lit room, apparently a private guest room on the top of the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade.

"The second stag!" A crowd of half-drunk men cheered him, Arthur Weasley pressing a pint into his hands, patting him on the shoulder. "There you go, son. You didn't think we'd let you marry our Hermione without a stag night, did you?"

Potter sat in a chair, clutching a tumbler of Firewhisky, rolling his eyes at him. He looked rather silly, as someone had hexed actual stag horns to sit at the top of his head. "I had no idea," Potter mouthed at him, and Voldemort almost groaned again. _A fucking stag night, shared with Potter. And there was no way to get out of it, if he didn't go for sheer rudeness or Obliviating the lot of them. Gods, what he did to keep that fucking facade._

Looking around, he counted almost thirty people from Potter's circle of friends, realizing that he, Lord Voldemort, was something of a charity case tonight. _He only got a stag night because he was to be married at the same time as Potter._

All the Weasley men, that sad, little sod, Neville Longbottom, some younger wizards he suspected being Potter's friends from school or from the Auror office, Hagrid, Kingsley Shacklebolt and the rest of the male Order of the fucking Phoenix were present. All drunk, all grinning like idiots at him. _He swore, he'd hex anyone who tried to put horns on his head. They'd wake up with horns growing inward in a place they had never expected it._ Even his future father in-law, the Granger-Muggle, was there, staring goggle-eyed at the horns on Potter's head, timidly clutching his pint. 

Stepping forward, he grasped the hand of Granger, politely greeting him. Nodding at Potter, he raised his glass, and downed the whole pint. It was obviously the right thing to do, as the party cheered even louder. Feeling the alcohol hit him slightly, he nodded as someone gave him another pint.

Xxxx

Much later in the evening, he was close to roaring drunk. It had turned out that the scowling Weasley twin had put up an Anti-Sobering spell around the room, just for laughs. Still, he managed to keep his trap shut, most of the time, to not letting any secrets slip out.

A young sandy-haired fellow, apparently an Irish Gryffindor school mate of Potter's by the name Seamus Finnigan or something like that, asked him repeatedly which house he would have been Sorted into.

"Tell us, Tom, where do you think you'd fit in the most? I mean, you're obviously smart as hell, but you got the balls to go for Minister after four months in the fucking country! If that isn't Gryffindor, then I'm a Hufflepuff!"

After trying to avoid answering for several minutes with no result, he could barely keep a civil tongue, drawling arrogantly: "Where do you think I fit in? I'm Slytherin's Heir, for crying out loud."

"Oh." the young man stilled for a moment, before he brightened again. "That is, it doesn't have to be Slytherin, you know, though there were some _very_ decent people in there too. You could belong somewhere else. You could be a Ravenclaw!"

Sighing, Voldemort said - _wondering how the fuck he had ended up in this awkward situation without any real possibility of retaliating_ \- "look, I opened the Chamber for the Headmistress, didn't I? Do you think that's something a Gryffindor or a Ravenclaw would be allowed to do?"

Finnigan's eyes widened slightly, but then he almost stumbled forward, falling into Voldemort's lap as two sharp cracks of Apparition whipped through the room.

"Filius! Horace! You made it!" Hagrid roared enthusiastically, and more people cheered. _Merlin, it was Slughorn, and that tiny half-breed of a Charms teacher_. Voldemort almost flinched, pushing Finnigan away from him. _If it was one thing he didn't need right now, it would be to deal with Slughorn._

"Harry, m'boy!" Slughorn greeted the Chosen One with a big smile, but Voldemort could already see his beady eyes dart towards him. Being the Minister and Lord Voldemort's supposed son, he just _knew_ he presented an allure much too strong for Slughorn to stay away.

He was correct, as the man waddled up to him, grinning widely, and said: "And you must be the new Minister! Congratulations on your enormous success in the election."

He gritted his teeth, and said: "Please call me Tom."

"Oh, I certainly will, m'boy!" Peering at him curiously, Slughorn said conspiratorially: "You do look a lot like your father, you know. Not like he did in the last years, oh no, certainly not _that_ , but as he was as a young man. Same height, same looks, I even think you've got his colouring down pat. And he was brilliant, our star-pupil, you know. Never seen anything like it, so clever, he was. It was such a shame…" 

Slughorn trailed off, seeing Voldemort's less-than-pleased expression. "I'm sorry, I should have known this would be a touchy subject. I hope you won't hold it against me, but we have brought a gift for Harry tonight."

Voldemort blinked, as Slughorn waddled off to the middle of the floor, calling for Flitwick to join him. "Gentlemen!" 

The din died down, and Slughorn's voice boomed out in the room, just like it used to do in the Potions classroom all those years ago. Feeling mellow with drink, Voldemort almost got a sentimental flashback to Hogwarts. _He had been happy there, studying, building his network and…_

"Harry, we can't join your wedding due to our duties at the school. Still, we've brought you a present." Pausing a moment, Slughorn said: "We've spoken to Minerva and the Ministry, and we want you to be able to follow the usual wizarding traditions, the duelling rules, though we'd dare say you've had to wait long enough. It's supposed to mean luck, you know? You, Harry, vanquished You-Know-Who, and therefore, you are entitled to his wand."

Potter looked uncomfortable, and Voldemort felt his own eyes widen with shock. _They were giving away his wand?_

"Here it is," Slughorn said, presenting a black velvet box with flourish, in which his old, white Yew wand rested on top of black silk.

"Gods, no, I cannot accept that," Potter said nervously, looking uncomfortable, "I don't want anything to do with it. I mean, these are _not_ good memories, you know."

The smiles on the faces of Slughorn and Flitwick faltered, and Voldemort wondered how little they knew Potter. _Even he could have told them Potter would have hated this travesty of a gift._

Then Slughorn turned to him, and said: "Will you accept it, then? You have the right to it too, though in a different way. Your inheritance, m’boy."

His thoughts swirled. _Yes, he had planned to acquire the wand later, and this would merely speed it up. But how would it look? Would people find it strange? Would it fuel those rumours about him?_

Torn between accepting and refusing, his voice faltered: "Lord Voldemort's wand? I … I … need to think about this. I'm sorry, it's rather sudden…"

Shacklebolt peered at him with sympathy, and boomed out to save the party: "Everybody bottoms up!" The clinking of glasses and cheering started again, but Voldemort felt thoroughly shaken. _He wanted it. He wanted his wand so badly. But it would be so hard to spin this - it would be better to just get it in secret sometime later. Yes, he’d do that._

A few hours later, Potter shambled over to him, holding that box in his hands. "Go on," he slurred, "touch it. I know you wanted to at the Victory Ball."

"I shouldn't," he murmured, feeling his heart pound in his chest as he stared at his wand. He would be willing to swear, it twitched in his proximity. _It longed for him too. The wand chooses the wizard - and his wand had chosen him, all those years ago._

"Come on, I know you want to. It's not dangerous, it's just a wand," Potter cajoled.

"I do," he admitted, "but I really shouldn't."

"Afraid you might find out just how much you resemble your daddy dearest? The one who killed boatloads of people, including my brother?" George Weasley sneered at him, suddenly standing beside him. "Or, if the rumours are true, that you actually are…"

"Shut up, George," Potter snarled, lifting up the wand, shaking it in Weasley's face. Weasley made as if to grab it, and Voldemort caught his thought - _snap it, break it, pulverize it_ \- and to save his wand - _protect it! -_ he whipped out his hand, and **smack**! 

There it was in his hand, sending a searing jolt of pleasure up his arm, and his eyes almost rolled with the familiarity of the touch, sending a spontaneous burst of magic through the tip.

Out of the wand shot an inky blackness, curling, coiling, rising as if to strike, before it exploded with a loud bang. Several of the men shrieked, and someone shouted: "Gods, was that a ruddy snake? What the fuck…"

George Weasley smiled triumphantly, devilishly at him. "I knew it," he crowed. "You are the same black ilk as him. You’re _evil_ incarnate, aren’t you?"

Potter stared wide-eyed at him, and Voldemort stared back. _He was way too drunk. He had no idea how to fix this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh.


	23. The Potter Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Potter shook his head, before he concluded: "Well, it doesn't really matter, because I trust you, and more importantly, Hermione does, too. Just don't … let her down, will you?"
> 
> The young man in front of him swallowed, his stare so earnest but unrelenting.
> 
> He felt shocked to his core. This was so raw, such a powerful expression of trust and friendship, of forgiveness for his faults and mistakes, like nothing he had felt before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's good to know that so many people out there love Tom too. I just hope you'll continue to do so after this chapter too. It's a fair warning: This chapter… oh, well, I apologize in advance: Character death.

At sunset, he was standing by the stone slab in the Weasley's garden. The air smelled heavily of roses and lilac, and the grass was emerald green in the deepening shadows. Potter was standing beside him, both dressed in their finery, and Voldemort realized that he was just as nervous as his younger nemesis. He was twirling his wand, the silk of his dress robe sliding over his shaking hands. Beside him, Potter was constantly running his hands through his hair, setting his glasses askew.

The small, portly Ministry official waited patiently in front of them, hands folded across his rounded belly, a benign smile on his round face. The guests sat in the chairs they had Conjured themselves, some on simple, wooden chairs, while others lounged in stuffed armchairs, idly chatting. They had kept it small, having around forty guests: The Grangers, the Weasleys, a select few from the Order and friends from Hogwarts, including one strange, blonde girl who also wanted to interview him for the Quibbler.

He could hear them gossip, some making wagers on the colours of the magical wedding bonds. Voldemort supposed the part he'd provide into the magical bond would be a withered black, but hopefully, he'd be able to conceal it. Nervously, his fingers moved constantly, his wand dangling from his fingertips.

 _Gods, he should stop drawing attention to his wand after that incident at the stag night_ . _“Um.. what did you do?” Potter’s voice had been but a whisper._

_He had not been able to explain himself, being too drunk and shocked to fabricate a rational explanation, but luckily, it had worked out for him. They had thought he was just as surprised as themselves, and several people - Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley amongst them - had tried to comfort him, telling him that inherited wands might react oddly, though, there were a few looking askance at him too._

_Slughorn had boomed out: “M’boy, that’s just because you would have belonged in Slytherin! No wonder this wand produced a snake for you. Nothing to worry about, gentlemen, it’s only Slytherin’s heritage showing. You should be proud, m’boy, Slytherin was a fine wizard in his day!”_

_Potter’s reaction looked to be more shocked than distrustful, like the Boy Wonder had no idea of what to think. Voldemort had excused himself shortly after the event, claiming that he felt ill, having had too much to drink. At that, Potter’s eyes had softened somewhat, but George Weasley looked so smug, so annoyingly satisfied, gloating in silence. Voldemort had silently vowed to deal with him later. George Weasley wasn’t important, because no one would believe him. Potter, however…_

Fidgeting in front of the altar, his mind flashed back to last night.

Xxxx

The night before the wedding, Potter had sat him down to talk. They were alone at Grimmauld Place, the witches staying somewhere else due to some silly superstition of not being seen on their wedding day before the actual ceremony.

"Here, have a Firewhisky with me," Potter had said, sitting down heavily in one of the deep, wingback chairs in the library.

Voldemort accepted two fingers of the smoking liquor, and leaned his head back. His temples were throbbing slightly, and he massaged his brow on the right side absently. _This was about the fucking snake, wasn't it?_

"Listen, Tom," Potter said, looking awfully young and worried. "You've done some things lately that worries me. I hadn't expected you to do some of those things that you did."

Voldemort had almost rolled his eyes. _Merlin, Potter had sat him down to do the "talk". He would have to be at his most convincing. Saving his facade, so to speak._

Calmly, he had said: "Is this about the decree, Harry?" The decree was a far better topic than the snake at the stag party. _Derailing Potter from his train of thoughts and suspicions was important_.

Pursing his lips, Potter had squinted at him. "Yes, though not only that. It's more… the whole package. The ideology, the ‘magic is might’-thing, that you seem to spout at times."

Voldemort had sighed artfully. Fixing his gaze on Potter's eyes, black meeting green full on, he had said, with brutal honesty, pushing the truthfulness of his statement towards Potter: "I've wielded magic from a very young age, Harry. People say I'm powerful, and it might be because of my heritage. But have you ever stopped to think it just might be because I did wandless magic extensively as a young child? That the power also comes from magical growth at an early stage in life?"

Potter looked startled, having obviously never thought about that. Though to Voldemort, it was the honest truth. His birth having gone undetected, he had been free of the trace until he was eleven, and he had found and controlled his magic at a very young age. _He was quite sure it had proved invaluable in developing his magic_.

"It's not about being an arse to your Department by causing extra work, Harry, it's about strengthening magic. Yes, I believe in magic. It has saved me throughout my life. I should also think you've had a few negative experiences with the trace yourself, isn't that right?"

Potter shrugged. "You're right about the trace, though I'd wish you hadn't revoked it flat out. It seems … a bit excessive. It's more … the reasoning, like, it's not for the children, it's for the cause of magic."

Voldemort had smiled at Potter, thinking - _spot on, boy_! - but instead, he said softly: "I just want my child - and Delphini - to get the same chances of developing their magic as I did. Kids aren't evil. Yes, there will be some accidents concerning the Statue of Secrecy, but nothing we can't handle."

At the mention of children, Potter had behaved just as Voldemort had predicted. _Really, the man was so tender-hearted when it came to family and kids, it was almost laughable._

Slowly, Potter had nodded to him, eyes softening, before knocking back his whisky. Coughing slightly by the burn in his throat, Potter had told him: "Like I said, there are some other things too, but I know you, Tom. I know for a fact that you care for Hermione as a Muggleborn witch, and that your mother was a Muggleborn too. So, I can't see you adhering to the blood prejudice that seems to be a part of the magic is might-movement, and I can't see you blowing the Statue of Secrecy to smithereens either. Still, you say the same things at times as the people who used to do just that."

Stalling, Potter had continued, his torrent of words slowing: "I guess for someone like you, there will always be whispers based on rumours and and suspicions. What I'm trying to say here, Tom, is that ... you're my friend, and I don't agree with all you're doing. Some of it, like that blast of magic from that dratted wand, I can't even begin to comprehend. It was … Though, I suppose, it was somehow an instinct, an act of involuntary magic…"

Potter had shook his head, before he concluded: "Well, it doesn't really matter, because I trust you, and more importantly, Hermione does, too. Just don't … let her down, will you?"

The young man in front of him had swallowed, his stare so earnest but unrelenting.

He had felt shocked to his core. _This was so raw, such a powerful expression of trust and friendship, of forgiveness for his faults and mistakes, like nothing he had felt before_. 

Leaning forward, he clasped Potter's hand, and oddly enough, his voice had come out in as a croak: "I won't, I promise. She’s too important to me. And … thank you."

Sitting back into the chair, sipping the Firewhisky, his mouth filling with the flavour of peat and smoke, letting the drink burn down his throat, he had wondered, _had he actually come to like his young nemesis?_

Xxxx

No matter that incident yesterday, here he was, at the ready, to marry Hermione Granger. _He was Lord Voldemort. He was not about to be scared by the thought of marrying a witch. A sinfully beautiful, delightfully clever witch, who loved him and supported him. He shouldn't be afraid, he should be above all that_. Still, his heart was pounding in his chest, his hands were sweaty, and futilely, he tried to tell himself that he was only worried by the Confundus he'd have to place on the wedding party. _But it wasn't true, far from it. He knew it_.

The grand, transportable wizarding organ set underneath the oak tree huffed to life, the shutters on the pipes opening wide as the first chord blasted out, the music swelling and making the leaves above tremble. The brides appeared, walking side by side to the slow rhythm of the famous Morgana's wedding march, written by the medieval composer Jocelyn de Magii du Papa.

Voldemort swallowed. She wore a flowing,embroidered white dress, with long, trailing bell sleeves, and a square cut decolletage. Her pretty face was hidden by a short veil, fastened by golden flowers in her pinned-up, wild hair. His breath almost stuttered in his chest. _She was lovely, so lovely, and all his. Soon to be bound to him_.

Beside him, he heard a sharp intake of breath from Potter, as the man obviously was overwhelmed by the sight of his own bride walking towards him. Somehow, Voldemort couldn't really see why Potter would bother, as Weasley clearly was overshadowed by his witch.

Hermione walked up to him, her small frame almost dwarfed by his height, and through the veil he could see a tremulous smile on her face. Voldemort was barely aware he was smiling too, being far too lost in her beauty as it was. His head felt like he was swimming, and his pulse was thundering in his ears.

"We are gathered here today…" the Ministry official intoned, and they both turned toward the man, facing him.

"Join your hands," the official said, and his left hand clasped hers, and the rustle beside him told him Potter and Weasley did the same thing. "You are now about to make a magical binding promise to love each other, to the best of your ability from this day on and till death do you part."

The vows from Potter and Weasley passed in a blur, and he tensed up, knowing it would be his turn very soon. Somehow, the oohs and aahs the spectators made at seeing the Potters wedding bond were unimportant, just a buzz in his ears, though he noticed the soft red colour shining between them, arching up into the deepening night skies. _Good for them, they'd be happy, as long as it would last_. 

Red signified a happy marriage, and the deeper and darker the shade of the bond became, the stronger the possibility of true love between the newlyweds was. That is, the possibility in relation to their capability of love. _Voldemort held no expectations for what he'd be able to produce_.

 _He had to get a grip, now, or he'd be exposed to the world_. He clenched his right hand, letting his short, well-trimmed nails bite into his palm, drawing blood to clear himself from the fuzz in his brain. He almost hissed by the pain, but miraculously, his head cleared. _Yes, he was ready_.

"Will you, Hermione Granger, swear to love, cherish and hold this man to the end of your days?"

"I do," his witch said, loud and clear. The wedding bond slowly formed around their joined hands, the colour a rosy, glowing pink.

"Will you, Tom Marvolo Voldemort Riddle, swear to protect, love and cherish this woman to the end of your days and beyond?"

"I do," he said, his voice almost trembling and weak. With something akin to nausea, he saw the bond deepening in colour, as a purplish taint seeped out from his hands, bleeding into the healthy pink from her side.

The official motioned for them to bring out their rings. They had chosen simple, golden bands, nothing fancy, just plain gold.

Hermione's sweet voice - _how had he ever thought her voice to be shrill_? - said: "With this ring I wed thee, Tom Marvolo Voldemort Riddle, for all my days."

The magic bond between them grew thicker, and the color changed into a light red.

Voldemort repeated the same lines, and with trepidation, he saw sinuous waves, a red almost scorched into black, release from his skin, melding with the colour her vow had produced. _So far, so good. But the next part would need a heavy Confundus, or he'd have to Obliviate everyone._

The official gave them an encouraging smile, before he lifted his small, ornately carved silver knife, chanting: "Bound by promise, bound by rings, bound by blood, let your magic powers merge!"

He took hold of their joined hands without parting them, and deftly slitted first Hermione's hand and then Voldemort's. As the wounds were pressed together, he braced himself, sending out a strong, wordless Confundus. He saw the official's eyes glaze over, and felt the intensity of everyone's stares drop significantly as their minds reeled under his spell. Hermione swayed by his side.

There - _there it was_ , the thing he desperately needed to hide. His magic - set free by the wedding chant - raged out of him, into her, shooting like a clearly visible greenish-black snake through her body, imprinting his dark magical signature, excuding a threatening, unwholesome aura, making her skin an almost translucent tinge to show the force moving inside her, making her teeth rattle as she slumped beside him. He barely managed to catch her, as her magic likewise poured into him, scouring him, like a molten stream of gold running rampant through his veins, covering the darkness, washing the taint of evil out, leaving him breathless and trembling.

He lifted the Confundus quickly, holding on to her, his wife, and then the dazed official gathered himself, wiping the sweat from his brow before he shouted: "I now declare you husband and wife!"

A deep sense of connection, of rightness, a feeling that **everything** would turn out alright settled inside him, making him gape in heartfelt surprise at Hermione, and then the bond exploded between them into a deep, crimson colour: dark, blackish streaks flaring up into the deep red, shooting up into eternity in a thick column.

"Gods, look!" he heard someone shout.

"Bloody hell, it's a crimson!"

"Fuck me, can you see that?"

"True love…!" a witch sniffled, and a male voice - _he thought it might belong to Arthur Weasley_ \- croaked: "I've never seen anything like it, not since we married, love..."

 _He couldn't believe it_. He'd expected his part of the bonding spell to turn into something dead, something greyish-black and lifeless he'd have to explain or replace everyone's memories of, but that clearly wasn't the case. _The magic didn't lie. Magic never lied, it was always true, the one thing he trusted_. The deep, crimson colour could only mean…

… with shaking hands, he lifted her veil, seeing her starry eyes and beaming smile, and he kissed her hungrily, possessively. _Mine, mine, forever. She loves me. And fuck, according to the crimson marriage bond, he loved her too, for whatever it was worth_.

Xxxx

He was standing quietly underneath the canopy of the great oak, having gone through the congratulations, the dinner and the obligatory dancing in a daze. Now, he needed a moment for himself, to think, to sort himself out. Sipping the champagne in his glass, he let his eyes follow his bride as she laughed and chattered with her friends. Potter was glaring at a young wizard named Dean Thomas or something like that, as the man in question waltzed around on the dance floor with Ginny, now Potter, nee Weasley.

His eyes slid back to Hermione. Her curls were escaping her hairdo, trailing adorably down her shoulders, and her skin looked glowing, silky smooth in the light from the fireflies, fairies and magical lanterns.

_His wife. Love changed everything, they said. It didn't._

_He was still himself, he wasn't turning into a nice, decent citizen, set on not hurting anyone. He still had plans to kill, maim, humiliate and destroy, grabbing all the power for himself. But… he also wanted to keep her safe, to protect her, just as much as he wanted power. He loved power, but he loved her too. She was more than a possession or a belonging, she was his wife to protect and care for. That big, uncomfortable bundle of feelings nestling in his chest, making him want to break the world apart for her, to destroy everything and remake it to make her happy just to keep her smiling, that feeling had a name. A name he despised, but he felt it nonetheless._

Smiling as he looked at his beautiful wife, he willed himself to call her attention through her tiny, golden marking. _His Mark. His proof that she belonged to him_. He felt a jolt, as he sent her a flash of his feelings through the mark, letting the wave of his emotions crash down on her.

She looked up with a startled smile, head swivelling as she pinpointed his location, and he winked at her. Blushing slightly, she blew him a kiss, before turning back to her friends.

"Dad," a small voice said from above. Startled, he looked up, seeing Delphini perched on a branch. Her light green dress was dirty, the flower garland in her long, blonde hair was coming apart, and she had chocolate cake smeared all over her little face.

"I thought you were in bed, already, with the other children?" he said sternly, but with a small smile.

The child scoffed. "The others can sleep, if they want to. I wanted to watch, and I wanted more cake."

"I’m sure you did," he said, feeling strangely mellow, but also amused by his little daughter.

"Can you teach me how to make these people do as I say, Dad? I don't want to go to bed. And they wouldn’t give me as much cake as I wanted." Her face was serious as she peered down at him.

He chuckled slightly. "Maybe later, sweetheart. First, you need to grow older and your magic needs to grow stronger."

She pouted at him. "I am strong!"

"You are," he said soothingly, "still, your magic needs to grow, just like the rest of you. Then, you can learn."

She perked up. "You promise? Later?"

"Later. I promise, I'll teach you how to rule them all, love." His eyes glittered with amusement, as his daughter's brown eyes lit up, a radiant smile on her face.

Xxxx

And finally, they were alone, back in his room - _his wife’s rooms too_ \- at Grimmauld.

Standing at the foot of the bed, he mumbled fervently "you're mine," as he kissed her, lips trailing along her throat, to the side of her neck, bending at the waist to reach her nape, his hands holding her roughly in place as she squirmed, trying to reach him too.

"You're mine, mine, forever."

"I am," she gasped, eyes fluttering with pleasure as his tongue now lapped at her chest, exploring her cleavage, "and you're mine, Tom."

"Yes," he growled, "I'm yours, all of me, and I'll give you everything. I'll give you the world, Hermione, just name it, whatever you want. I'll make you a queen, if you want to."

"I just want to be yours, Tom," she laughed breathlessly, "everything else I'll take care of myself, love."

He chuckled, as he wrenched the spider silk of her dress down to access her breasts. "I know, darling, I know. You're the most capable witch this side of Morgana, and I have no doubt whatsoever that you can create and recreate the world into something to your liking. But I'll protect you, help you and love you all the way, Hermione, just like you will do for me. We're **partners, husband** and **wife** ." By saying that, he again felt that profound feeling of belonging, like had just come home. _It was mindboggling_.

He licked her nipples to hard, little points, and she whimpered with need.

"Yes Tom, more… Yes, we're together, we're equals!"

 _He wasn't sure about that, but he supposed, if he had an equal of sorts, it would be her_. Busying himself with shimmying the dress down past her hips, he grunted appreciatively at her having forgone knickers, just settling for garters and stockings. Snaking his hands between her legs, she widened her stance immediately, letting his fingers feel her soaked slit. As he thumbed her hard little nub, she gave off a half-swallowed cry, and he plunged two fingers into her, fucking her relentlessly with his hand. She writhed and moaned, leaning her hands on his chest, before she whispered: "Gods, Tom, I'm going to fall, my legs are giving out."

"That's my girl," he hissed, watching the ecstasy on her face, her eyes half-lidded, mouth open, and that beautiful flush in her cheeks. "Come for me, scream my name, Hermione, show me who you belong to!"

His thumb flicked at her clit, and he felt tremors start in her thighs, growing stronger and stronger until she sobbed, her arms at his chest shaking, and then her walls fluttered around his fingers, and she cried out: "Tom, oh gods, Toooom!"

And suddenly, it was so urgent for him, he felt like he could spill himself in his trousers, and he pushed her down on the bed, her shaking hands pulling his fly open, and he fell over her, still clothed, shoving himself inside her in one blissful, quick thrust. 

His hips set a furious pace, like he couldn't restrain himself, and his cock slammed into her over and over, and he was cresting, the bliss overwhelming him, taking him apart, the pleasure rushing up his cock, and he gasped in her ear: "Hermione, oh, Hermione, oh, my witch, you belong to me, I love you, I fucking do, Hermione!"

He was above her, his full weight crushing her down into the mattress, and he felt like he had been unconscious for a minute. 

Rolling off her, feeling the trickle of his seed following him out of her pussy, he scooped her up, placing her head on his chest, kissing her brow, her hair. "I love you, Hermione, I actually, really do."

She chuckled languidly, her breath tickling his nipples as her hands slowly stroked his chest. "I love you too, Tom. I love all of you, you know, my husband. I love you, Tom Marvolo - her voice paused, almost inaudibly before his next name - … Voldemort ...Riddle."

A deep sigh left him, and for once, Voldemort thought he knew what satisfaction - _a true, fulfilled contentment with his world_ \- was.

Xxxx

The Potter's were off on their honeymoon, going to the Amazonas for a three week exotic trip, leaving Grimmauld all to Hermione and him - and Delphini. The child had moved in, gotten her own room and started a collection of children's books that Hermione laughingly said rivalled her own.

They enjoyed the relative solitude and quiet, but his position demanded much of his time - as he had expected.

Ruefully, he told his witch: "I promise, I'll make it up to you later. It just doesn't work out being newly elected and going away on a honeymoon. Maybe in the autumn… I could take you to Paris, or Rome..."

"I know, silly," she said, giving him a big kiss, her eyes shining with the special light that made him go all warm inside.

He kissed her back, and pecked Delphini on the cheek as he lifted his daughter up on his arm. "I'll take her through the Floo to Molly, if you can pick her up in the afternoon."

*Certainly," she replied with a smile, and blew a kiss to Delphini as the fire turned green.

Xxxx

"And that's why the Muggles want to financially support our reformation of the Department of Mysteries into the Department of Magical Research of Mysteries, Protection and Life," he concluded his speech, nodding to the Wizengamot.

An elderly witch rose, and the Speaker allowed her question by Transferring the room's default Sonorous to her vocal Chords: "This is all well and good, that the Muggles want us to help them research their illnesses. But what about the results? Won't this breach the Statue of Secrecy?"

The Speaker nodded to him, Transferring the Sonorous back to Voldemort. He smiled, nodding approvingly to the witch: "We will have to cross that bridge when we have some results, but I don’t think this will cause a breach. Much can be done disguised as Muggle Medicine, because a Potion can be camouflaged into their vaccines and pills. Other Healing methods like Charms can be done wordlessly and wandlessly. This way, we can save Muggles from pain and death, helping them to overcome their illnesses."

Everyone nodded, and there were no further questions. _After all, who looked a gift horse in the mouth too closely when the Muggles wanted to give them a lot of Gallons? Besides, he had no intention of actually curing Muggles of cancer, AIDS or Ebola, or whatever their dangerous diseases were named. This victory meant that he had almost doubled the Ministry's budget by the stroke of a quill - and a hefty Imperius, as it was_.

Last week, he had met with the Muggle Prime Minister, a rather slick fellow named Tony Blair. While under the Imperius curse, Blair had agreed to just hand over a yearly donation consisting of a sizable sum of pounds, counted in billions, each year, camouflaging it in the Muggle budget as Defence expenses, due to the Muggle Afghanistan conflict. Blair had bought wholeheartedly in on the idea of a top-secret, magical solution to the British Healthcare problems.

That turned into a nice bonus revenue of Galleons, enough to both grant Ministry workers a pay raise to ensure his popularity and backing up the immortality research program he was starting in his revamped Department of Mysteries, though it would heavily involve St. Mungo's too.

The beauty of his scheme was that it made a perfect smokescreen for the real purposes of the research program. Health, illness, Healing, Time and Death would be vital steps in any kind of immortality research, because one needed to have a thorough understanding of what the research would combat, but the end game was immortality. _For him, Hermione and his children_.

An added bonus was that this would cover up the uproar caused by his removal of the ban on underage magic. Everyone would forget about it: Ministry workers pleased to get a pay raise, and everyone else delighted by the research programme.

Voldemort smiled at the Wizengamot, and if he had to say so himself: The gazes they sent back at him were nothing short of adoring, impressed and filled to the brim with enthusiasm. _He had them fooled_.

Xxxx

He found Weasley, hungover and dishevelled in the hovel the man obviously called his home. Voldemort snorted, looking around with a sneer, seeing the dirt, the spoiled remains of Muggle fast food on the table, the foul stains on the carpet. _I_ t seemed unbelievable that Weasley was a wizard, he could have cleaned this place with a wave of his wand, but this place was pure filth. _His destruction of Ron Weasley's mind had been a smashing success. The man had been very useful - could have been useful later on too - but now it was time to end it._

Weasley was sitting bleary-eyed in a chair, hunched over, a week's growth of beard on his face, clutching an empty phial of Hangover Potion in his hands. He lifted his grimy face to Voldemort, and snorted. "What d'you want?" he slurred.

"Just a quick talk. It's time for your final command, and a small Obliviate to top it off in the end."

Xxxx

The Potters were back from their honeymoon, and they were tanned, happy and looked like they were more in love than the colour of their wedding bond should indicate. Sitting at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour in Diagon Alley on a fine Sunday afternoon in June, he felt like he was sitting on needles, the tension in his body almost unbearable. His neck prickled, and the Protego he would cast was almost fully formed, waiting for the push of his magic to be released.

Hermione was chattering happily with the other newlyweds, and she looked radiant, innocent, unconcerned, not knowing that her life would be upended in just minutes, as she scooped spoon after spoon of chocolate and vanilla ice cream into her mouth. Not even the sight of her licking a glob of cream from the corner of her mouth could distract him.

"You look like you're wrestling with a problem, Tom," Harry said with a smile. "Is it hard being the Minister?"

He forced a small, rueful smile on his face, and said: "Sometimes it is distracting, at least. Like now, I'd like to relax, and instead, these thoughts are churning. I'm trying to solve a long time problem, but I think I'm very close to the final solution."

And like that, this aptly became his last words to Potter as the air shimmered, and Weasley appeared as he shook off his Disillusionment Charm, standing a few steps behind his former friend.

The tall, lanky figure moved stealthily forward, proof of his Auror training, and neither Harry, Hermione or Ginny noticed a thing. As he was almost upon them, Voldemort made his eyes widen, his hand grasping his wand, and he leapt up as Ron Weasley raised his hands, revealing the Disillusioned axe he held, before smashing the sharp end into the back of Harry Potter's head. Voldemort's shouted " _Protego_!" shielded Hermione and Ginny Weasley just a second after the blow fell.

Blood spurted out as the light in Potter's green eyes were snuffed out. There was a brief, shocked moment of silence, before both Ginny Weasley and Hermione screamed.

"Aaaaaah! Harry, oh HARRY!"

Ginny was half-raised from her chair, grasping at her dead husband's arm, wailing a high-pitched "Harry, Harry, **Harry**!"

The dead body of the wizarding world's Saviour toppled over from the chair, falling down onto the flagstones with a solid thunk.

Quickly, Voldemort cast an Incarcerous on Weasley, Stunning him too for good measure, before he swept the table away, kneeling in front of Potter, checking his pulse, sending several diagnostic spells into the corpse.

People were yelling in the background, some whispering in hushed tones, and he was aware that quite a number of spectators were gathering around them.

Lowering his head to allow a moment to compose himself, hiding the triumph in his eyes, he gave off a ragged sigh. _He had succeeded_. Still, the success felt strangely hollow.

Raising his head, he put an anguished expression on his face, whispering hoarsely to Ginny Weasley: "It's no use, I'm sorry, he's gone."

At seeing Potter's cleaved head, blood dripping, making a small, obscenely red river across the flagstones, he was surprised to feel a twinge of regret. _Potter had been a good enough fellow, he supposed, pleasant company, and a strong, clear-minded wizard. Oddly enough, he felt like he would have wanted to keep him around, though that had never been an option. It felt like he had lost something. Something important. Like a friend, perhaps. Merlin, he was getting soft_.

Meeting Hermione's eyes, he rose, embracing her, and for good measure, scoped Ginny Weasley into his arms too. Both witches leaned into him, still crying, before Ginny Weasley turned away, sinking hopelessly down by her husband's dead body, looking so very small, forlorn and bereft. Broken sounds escaped her mouth, and her body shook, her hands shaking as she caressed the remains of her dead husband's face, blood pooling around her knees.

He hugged his wife, his love, regretting the fact that he had to cause her pain. His shirt became wet with her tears, and he tried to smother wracking sobs into his body. He could hear her repeated whimpers of "Harry, oh no, Ron, why? Gods, Harry, Harry…"

 _Hurting her was unfortunate, but necessary. There was no way he'd risk that dratted prophecy coming to life again, and Potter was a risk to him, he would always be. It had to be so. It was the only logical solution, it was the right thing to do_. 

Voldemort almost gritted his teeth at the pathetic way his mind tried to convince himself that he had done the right thing. _He had to admit it, he felt torn by his actions. Fuck, he'd_ **_miss_ ** _Potter_.

Aurors were Apparating in, many of them exclaiming loudly as they saw Potter, some even starting to cry, and Voldemort pointed wordlessly towards Weasley's bound and Stunned figure, before releasing his spells, letting the Aurors take over.

The spectators were reluctantly forced back, and then the media started to swarm the place, cameras flashing and quills moving.

Stroking Hermione's back, he tried to concentrate on what was important, not on flashbacks of Potter laughing, the way he had made friendly jests and his surprisingly open and trustful offering of friendship. And now he was dead, skull split open by his former best friend, Golden Trio member Ronald Weasley, the promise of a bright future with friends, family and a continued career of helping the wizarding world brutally ended.

 _Was this unfamiliar feeling remorse? No, he needed to think about what mattered, like his power, taking over the world, and Hermione. And his children. That's why he did what he had to do: Vanquish Potter. Potter was destined to be a threat to Voldemort. Yes, it had to happen_. _It had been the plan all along._

Squaring his shoulders, putting his face into the appropriate devastated expression, he raised his head to let his face be captured by photographers, even going so far as letting a single tear leave his eyes, still clutching his crying witch to him.

_This minor sadness, his surprising bout of self-doubt, would disappear soon, he felt sure. Besides, Hermione would get over her grief. Now Harry Potter, his nemesis, was finally dead. The Golden Trio, the cause of his former downfall was broken, had been blasted into smithereens. Weasley had killed Potter and would spend his days in Azkaban, and Hermione Granger belonged to him._

_Voldemort had won_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. Poor Harry! :-o
> 
> Remember, “Tom Riddle is his own warning.” Voldemort sticks to his plans, removing all obstacles - even though he’s come to like Harry and Ron. 
> 
> Remember: There's still another chapter to go. Please, tell me what you think!
> 
> If any of you have read my Tomione story Absence, you'll probably recognize the wedding ritual. I just modified it slightly for this story (leaving out the archaic vow of obeisance).


	24. Truth by Wand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He froze in his chair. The drawing room had become deadly silent. His brief moment of shock wore quickly off, and he lurched forward, stumbling to the open door to peer into the room, to see how his witch reacted.
> 
> She was sitting on the sofa, her face ashen-white, her mouth open. The Potter baby was cooing on his playmat, and the other witches were staring blankly at the results of her spell, hanging in blazing letters above his son's cradle. The cradle was rocking gently with a gentle movement Charm, his son sleeping with his small hands raised beside his head.
> 
> The letters above spelled out his son's paternity for all to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can see why you would be upset for Tom making Ron kill Harry. With friendship, him starting to develop real feelings - it reads almost like a redemption arch, doesn't it? And then bam! He still went through with his long term plan: Breaking up the Golden Trio, having Ron remove Harry from the scene, because he didn't want to risk doing it himself. 
> 
> It's good to know that Voldemort still can serve a shocker. *grins*  
> Yes, I agree it was brutal. Then again, Lord Voldemort is kind of a study in excessive violence, so to speak. I'd like to expand on his reasoning. 
> 
> To our favourite sociopath, Harry's death would be something of an obvious, logical step. Yes, he's worried about the prophecy, about Harry finding him out and about an eventual magical confrontation with Harry. It's also about petty revenge for having someone kill his former self (even though he's disgusted with snake-face), and it's also the fact that Voldemort has quite the ego. He wants to be the one in the spotlight, and he's *not* sharing. 
> 
> Thus, the "rational" choice for someone like Voldemort would be to kill Harry, despite him having regrets.

**31 December 2001**

He returned home earlier than he had anticipated, after another shitty meeting with the French envoy. They had been wrangling over the deal for weeks. Even though it was New Year’s Eve - _his fucking birthday, though no one was aware of that fact_ \- they had needed a final meeting to hammer out the details. The French wanted a tax reduction on their magical trade articles into Britain, while he needed their support in his motion to overthrow the current leader of the European Magical Union, the formidable German witch Angelixa Mercato.

The deal almost didn't go through, though, everything got better when he whipped out his wand to dole out a series of Imperio's, ending with the French signing away their country's rights to negotiate in the European Magical Union to him. Kingsley Shacklebolt, his chief negotiator, by now hardened into a staunch believer that the end justifies the means, including the use of Unforgivables, had barely batted an eyelid.

Rubbing his eyes tiredly - _it had been so many late nights, and his infant son was keeping them awake at the oddest hours_ \- he heard voices chattering from the drawing room. Sighing heavily, he sat down in the adjoining study, not making himself known, not feeling ready to entertain guests at the moment.

He leaned back into his chair, closing his eyes, and the voices from the other room drifted in, almost lulling him into sleep. It was Hermione, of course - _he felt his mouth tug up into a smile by the sound of her talking animatedly_ \- and Ginny Potter. The third voice was familiar too, belonging to that odd friend of theirs, Luna Lovegood, now heavily pregnant. She was rarely around, but their friendship seemed solid enough, Lovegood sending them postcards from all over the globe.

The babies were quiet, so, for once, he guessed his son was asleep. His son … _There was a warm, fuzzy feeling inside him by the thought of those small fists, and those black, alert eyes that seemed to follow him around the room_. And his witch, struggling through the birth, and then the first painful nursings, followed by sleep deprivation. She was doing wonderfully, hormonal imbalance and seemingly random outbursts of tears and joy notwithstanding, and Voldemort found himself to be so very proud of her.

After Potter's death and Weasley's imprisonment in Azkaban, he and Hermione had stayed in 12 Grimmauld Place, keeping Ginny Potter company. The two witches supported each other through their grief and their pregnancies, and to his surprise, he realized he actually liked Ginny Potter. She was bright and courageous, but the most important fact was that Hermione needed her friend, after losing Potter and Ron Weasley. _Ginny Potter had become useful_.

Looking back at those first days of his complete victory, he smiled tiredly. His speech at Potter's funeral had moved the entire wizarding world. His show of compassion and mercy at the plea of the devastated Weasley family, sentencing Ron Weasley for life in Azkaban instead of the Dementor's Kiss, had secured his reputation even more firmly, both with the public and within the members of the Order of the Phoenix. _A merciful ruler. They couldn't be farther from the truth_.

_It was strange, really_ , he mused. _Finding out that he loved Hermione and cared for his little family, and then coming to terms with the fact that he liked Harry Potter, even missed him, was still somewhat unfathomable_. If the circumstances had been different, he'd like to keep Potter alive and utilizing Weasley for other purposes.

The whole experience had, in the end, served him well. _He was certain he'd made the right choice_. Learning more feelings for his repertoire, also opened up more details and richness in the way he faked and acted out emotions and interactions. In fact, he'd gotten even better in manipulating people than before, just by adding more real life experience to his acting. As it was, the people loved him, allowing him to slip his more controversial motions through the Wizengamot as they either did not notice or turned a blind eye to his actions.

The steady mumble of voices slipping through the open, French doors was soothing, though something was niggling at the back of his mind. Yawning, he decided to ignore it, instead wondering if he actually could take a small nap right here. If he slept a little, maybe waking up at three am by the squalling of his son wouldn't be that hard.

He rolled his neck, feeling the knots in his muscles crack as he released the tension. _Yes, he would take a nap, he deserved it_. _One year ago, he had entered this new timeline, and now, Britain was firmly his, and he had laid the groundwork for taking over Europe by securing French support for the time being. Maybe even_ …

His eyes snapped open, as something the witches said alerted him. _What had they been talking about_? Casting about in his mind, he remembered:

_"The spell isn't working for me," Luna Lovegood had said firmly. "Is it because the baby isn't born, or is it because I'm casting it wrong?"_

_Scandalized, Ginny Potter had exclaimed: "Luna! Are you telling us you still don't know who the father is?!"_

_Lovegood had snickered. "Don't be so shocked, Ginny! I've just been enjoying life. Though it's true, I have no idea who the father is, or even if he's a wizard or a Muggle. There was this love fest at Goa at solstice, you know, and there was such a good mood, so many wizards and Muggles mingling, and …"_

_"No details, please," Ginny had pleaded._

_Hermione had interceded: "We'd love to hear all about your exploits at some other time, Luna, but right now, we're both stuck in milk and diapers over our heads, so sex is about the farthest thing…"_

_"I'm never going to have sex again." Ginny Weasley had interrupted, her voice morose._

_There had been a brief pause, and what Hermione had said next, was the very thing that shook him out of his reverie, her voice bossy and instructive:_

_"Luna, I'll show you the spell. Of course it won't work on a foetus,_ **_everybody_ ** _knows that, but let me demonstrate. Ginny…?"_

_"Not on little James, no," Ginny said hurriedly, her voice broken. "I can't see his name, it only makes me …"_

_"Of course," his wife said soothingly, and then she clearly said: "Revelis Patronage."_

He froze in his chair. The drawing room had become deadly silent. His brief moment of shock wore quickly off, and he lurched forward, stumbling to the open door to peer into the room, to see how his witch reacted.

She was sitting on the sofa, her face ashen-white, her mouth open. The Potter baby was cooing on his playmat, and the other witches were staring blankly at the results of her spell, hanging in blazing letters above his son's cradle. The cradle was rocking gently with a gentle movement Charm, his son sleeping with his small hands raised beside his head.

The letters above spelled out his son's paternity for all to see.

**_Hermione Jean née Granger Riddle - Tom Marvolo Voldemort Riddle_ **

**_Merope née Gaunt Riddle - Tom Riddle Snr._ **

He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling panic welling up inside. _She wasn't to know! He had never intended for her to find out_!

Suddenly Ginny Weasley moved, slamming her fist at the arm of her chair: "Damn! It was him, all the time! All those rumours…" she spat bitterly, tears flooding her eyes. "And I believed him, I cared for him!"

Hermione was sitting stock still, though he could see her eyes were getting suspiciously glassy.

"Fuck," Ginny swore again, "Lord Voldemort, he really fucked us over, didn't he?!"

Lovegood interrupted, her voice having that strange, dreamy quality even in this situation: "No, seriously Ginny, he fucked **Hermione**."

Ginny threw her an exasperated look, before she said with concern: "Hermione? Are you in there, love? Talk to us. We'll fix this, love, we'll help you."

He ached inside, seeing his witch looking this lost, confused and sorrowful. Their son was barely four weeks old, and her hormones were playing havoc on her at the best of times, making her laugh and cry more easily than he'd ever imagined possible. _And now …_ **_this_**.

Making a quick decision, he flipped a Stunner towards Ginny Weasley and Lovegood, making sure they were good and well knocked out, before stepping into the drawing room. His dress shoes clicked on the wooden floor, until he reached the Turkish carpet, steps muffled by the fabric. 

Her head moved towards him, much too slow, too sluggish, and her eyes were full of so much pain.

"Talk to me, Hermione", he implored, "talk to _me_ ." His heart was pounding at a furious rate, and he felt almost sick with the tension thrumming through his body. _He couldn't lose her. He needed her. She was his_.

Slowly rousing herself, she lifted her big, dark eyes to him, tears hanging in her lashes. "What should I say, to _you_?" The judgement in her voice made him wince.

"I love you," he said hurriedly, "I'm not _him_ , the one you remember from the war."

"Who are you, then?" she said, her voice a whisper, those eyes still burning at him with that terrible hurt and what he recognized as a kindling anger.

"I'm not _him_ ," he repeated insistently, before telling her of him, being his twenty-nine year old self through the ritual that had sent him so many years forward, leaving nothing but an increasingly mad husk of himself in the past.

"So," she said sceptically, "you are your twenty-nine year old self, not that … that _thing_ we defeated?"

"Actually," he suddenly corrected, daring a small smile, "I'm thirty, today."

"Congratulations," she said automatically, before twisting her mouth into a grimace. "What did it entail, that ritual of yours? Did someone die to bring you over?"

He just blinked at her. _Yes, several had died, but… He didn't want to tell her that. She wouldn't take it well_.

Apparently, his reaction was telling enough, because her shoulders slumped, and she said wearily: "You're the same as you were then in the fifties, aren't you? Two Horcruxes under your belt, and Merlin knows how many killings."

He spread his hands helplessly. Then he shook himself, moving towards her. _He needed to convince her. **Now**_.

She scooted away from him, even as he reached for her. Sitting down beside her on the sofa, he held out his empty hands to her in a placating gesture that merely made her scoff.

"Come on, I know you don't need a wand to be dangerous. Really, Tom… Voldemort?" She spat the last name like it tasted foul in her mouth.

"When have I ever hurt you? It's _me_ ," he said urgently. "I'm still the man you know, the man you go to bed with, the man you married, the father of our son, the man who loves you. I'm me, Hermione, you know the _genuine me_."

Biting her lip as her eyes finally overflowed, she bowed her head. Sniffling, she mumbled: "If I only could believe that… There's more to you, isn't it? That's quite a big secret you've kept from me."

"I'm not a sensitive and emotional wizard," he said wryly, moving closer to lift her chin up to look into her eyes, gauging her distress, "and I think you are very much aware of that. The world can go to hell for all I care, but I do care about you. Believe me, I do."

Stubbornly, she shook free, refusing to meet his eyes. "What about them?" she pointed at Ginny Potter and Lovegood.

He shrugged. "I like Ginny too. You like Lovegood. As long as they won't retain the faintest idea about this conversation, I'm fine with them. Hermione, I don't randomly kill people I like or need for no reason at all. You could do the Obliviate yourself, if you want to."

She seemed stunned by his words, though he really couldn't understand why. _When had he ever tortured or killed in front of her? Besides, he always had a good reason for killing_. _Murdering two famous witches in his own house would be a last resort indeed_.

Her lip trembled, and he couldn't help himself, embracing her. For a moment, she struggled against him, before she slumped, the fight leaving her body. For a while, she cried against his chest, wetting his shirt with her tears, and he rocked her gently, like she was a child. _Maybe it would work out. Maybe she'd accept him, for all he was._ A small hope kindled in his chest, only to flutter as she suddenly wrenched free from his arms, poking his chest with her fingers, as she demanded:

"How many have you tortured? How many people have you killed since your return? How many after you became Minister? How many Unforgivables?"

Voldemort groaned, resting his face in his palm. "Why do you need to know?"

"I need to know how much you are hiding from me," she said sharply, her mouth pinching as she crossed her arms over her breasts, heavy with milk.

"Fine," he said, feeling a small spike of irritation. _It was wrong, he had to curb it, this was much too important_. Sighing, he admitted candidly: "I have killed. I have tortured. I use Unforgivables often, maybe not every day, but at least once a week. Are you happy, now that you know?"

"Happy?" The pitch in her voice rose, and she snorted. " _Happy_?!"

"Yes," he replied. "The reason I didn't tell you was exactly this. I'll never hurt you, Hermione, I love you, and I'll protect you and our family against anything. Tell me, love, would you ever considered me if you had known from the start?"

She laughed, bitterly and a little breathless. "Consider you? Considering how to kill you again, certainly, but as a lover … _Never_."

"That's right," he said, crooning at her, grabbing her hand, stroking her palm slowly with his fingers, trailing light caresses around her wrist. "I saw you in the newspapers before I met you. You were so lovely, so intriguing, and I just knew I needed you. And you, you'd never give me the time of the day, wouldn't you? Why would I tell you? Why tell anyone? This was a fresh start, an opportunity to do better than before, wasn't it?"

He let his voice go as seductively as it could, whispering: "Hermione, you taught me how to love. You taught me how to feel. Doesn't that count for something? You made me a better man. You've tamed me. I'm not going to destroy the world. I'm going to save it and make the world better, for you, for Delphini, for _our son_."

She swallowed, and for a moment, he thought he had her. _He thought he had won his Golden Girl over_.

But then, she whimpered. "Oh gods, Harry - Ron, you orchestrated that too, didn't you? You fucking monster!" Her eyes were flashing, and his hope died.

He stilled, arms hanging stiffly by his sides, and there, plain as the day, he could see he was losing her. _Hermione Granger would not let herself be swayed into being the happy wife of Lord Voldemort. There was too much pain, too much hurt, too much loss_.

"I love you," he whispered.

Her eyes ignited, and she hissed back at him: "You can't love me. I think it's a firmly established fact that you haven't got the ability. You're a liar, through and through!"

"I swear, it's real. I do love you." He did his best to convey his love, even pushing his emotions through his golden mark on her body, and she winced.

Her tears started to fall again in earnest, running down her cheeks as she sobbed. "It's a lie, Merlin help me, you've tricked me, killed Harry, destroyed Ron, ruined everything for me but _you_ , and now I know it's all a lie!"

It all came crashing down on him, his throat constricting by the thought of her not being his anymore. He wanted her, this future, this family, this power, and Voldemort realized: _I CANNOT lose her. Fuck, maybe Dumbledore was right. Love was important. Though the old coot was wrong, it had never anything to do with the greater good for everyone. It was simply ensuring that you and your loved ones came out on top. After all, there was only power, and those too weak to seek it for themselves - and for the happiness and the prosperity of their families_.

For a few moments, he had held on to the hope that he could win her over, that her love for him would be greater than her feelings of hatred and fear. _But that wasn't to be_. _There_ **_was_ ** _only power, and he was most certainly not afraid to seek it_.

His mouth set firm, he brought out his wand, pointing it at her.

Her brown, beautiful eyes widened in fear, and she gasped, clutching the edge of the crib in front of her: "And now you'll kill me? Over our son’s crib?"

"Never," he said tenderly. "I'll never hurt you, love. I'll just make everything alright. I'll make you happy again." 

Smiling at her, he cast the most precise incision of Mind Magic he'd ever cared to do: " _Obliviate_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this a HEA? Yes, I will maintain it is a HEA - for Voldemort. Though, it's a very dubious HEA by anyone else's standard.  
> However, I'd like to think they stayed happy. He would keep more in line, so not to lose Hermione, making her happy. The last scene was the core idea of the story, so everything else was an elaborate backstory for this to happen. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, commenting and giving kudos to "Tom, just Tom." 
> 
> When I wrote this originally for FFNet, the writing process was so much more fun than expected, and I loved revisiting it, editing this and adding more to the story for AO3. I have to say, getting inside Lord Voldemort's head to write him is a blast. It feels like taking your every worst impulse and then go on to imagine: What if you had the ability to go through with it? 
> 
> Not sure, though, at the end of it all, I am a better person for it. *grins*


End file.
